Into A Town That No Longer Exists Poem by Robert Rorabeck

If I lost my leg in the same old illusions of
The desert and now this:
Nothing of silver bells, just old hair, and the long sad
Memories of climbing over-bellied over mountains,
Alone, in love with the wrong girl;
Perpetually looking down on the soured heads of tourists
Walking inter the tinkering bells of
Ice cream parlors and bad theatres;
And there she was, hung up as a blue fleece in the sang-froid
Weathers of a bitter tree;
And now this, like the science trying to describe her, like a lost
Muse of the byways, or the first attempts of flight
That go pell-mell into graveyards, not swerving too much,
And then there: segregated but well kempt,
And she sleeps in the always mowed greenness with her best
Friend forever, as I am just a hiker going down through the
Back end of darkening Sundays, like a stray dog stuck in between
The keys of a Piano and straying there so long
As to be making my home into a town that no longer exists.