Following Lost Dogs Home Poem by Robert Rorabeck

It gets cold in the automobiles of twilight
When there are no charms or stores opened.
In the points between her map,
The lady is cold and beautiful sleeping in her car,
But she could be anyone,
And young professors caravan to the conference to
Add their two cents to the collection jar;
Oh, but look- Aren’t they something?
F&ck,
But there still isn’t enough pictures of Sylvia Plathe
In the garden to identify her,
Her lap is empty
And she could be anyone; and the people couple young and
Happy in their car,
And they go on the sweet vacations, they go far,
All the way to new horizons along the train tracks smoking
Time,
But they only drive there:
They sleep with the new people entering them,
Heads on pillows, thoughts upon the lips of who they are-
My love was here yesterday, but she doesn’t
Belong to me; she is in the tunnel with the new
Trains entering, smoke and grease,
And no one is out on the swing set but the wind,
Who says come to me, but no one answers: It isn’t her.
I have lost my dog,
And no one answers but
If the moon is on its final quarter, I couldn’t tell,
And the woman is sleeping in her car, her breath the
Chamber whispering- In Spain, there are poets who could speak to
Her, all asleep under the olive broughs, but she doesn’t
Answer them by the moon or anything; her blue jacket
Looks nice on her pallid skin;
It resembles her, and I wish I could love her,
But who am I
Jumping trains;
I wish I could cover her up and speak to her &
Become the smoke
She is beautiful if only half way to other ways than here,
And doesn’t give a d$mn of pain,
And she has no home of where she knows,
Most beautiful without the land she flies along;
Or if she joins & is lucky
Getting lost about anywhere, follows her dog home.