Flying By The Stars Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Nicknacked by the busybodies whom do not drink—
While I am in Shanghai having insociant dreams of
Living back in Arizona—
In Show low, in a little town of 10,000—
Can I support the sport
When my writing cannot even uplift angels,
Or buy off the metamorphosis of their wings:
Cannot calm them down,
Making them part of the normal revenue:
Now we have stewardesses flying back and forth
Wingless, who have never seen me even though
I have been once or twice back across their planes
Even though I have not learned to spell,
But the night is calmed,
The unplanted roses are sleeping just as ghosts
Beneath the cosages of the white mountains—
Maybe ten years ago my sisters were going to prom—
But now the night is out and the fire has burned
And it will take the blind man a thousand
Unbelieving steps to meet the carressess
At the end of his road.