In The Slow Motion Traffic Jam Of Sky Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Today, the same old things- the new scars,
Ringless fingers,
And the way the clouds tended to move like
Somnulent cars
Across the nettled draperies;
Then didn’t I think of you; yes, the eerie
Aphorism of spilt milk- the drizzle of the snow
Plow your baby missed-
That was what you misquoted at the end of
The article,
And the sand lions sleep not so very deeply
In the silt,
Like Spanish glassed mothers in their patio,
Staring forlornly at the apathetic death from the
Eyes of the alligator down the mowed
Green- the very same one who ate Sancho
Panzo while hypnotized by a windmill:
And that is how you should have ended it,
Whistling like a Clint Eastwood movie since I’ve
Lost all that I’ve loved, or never loved,
Except for my dogs- and we go long-tongued anyways
Looking for the sweet spots where you might
Be lying carelessly disengaged in the slow-motion
Traffic jam of sky.