Just Another Lackluster Part Of The Hoodlum's Tapestry Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I’ll bend down to clean my car
And when I’ll look up there’ll be:

Glittering tombs
Alone, in the little eternal rooms,
She’ll look up say she’ll love me,
Lie appeasing,
Because we’re sure to always be in
Her,
Rippling echoes: the lips of the dead,
Unmigrated sparrows,
Chalk lines unskipped,
Promises, yada yada yada,
Bouquets on a tomb,
Petals wet, sleepy lips,
Bent subtle by an arachnid’s
Migrations who is out of spume
But hungry,
Vanishing jet planes who speak loudly
And then disappear,
And not a person looks up around here;
And the library is as empty and
Unvisited as
Her gaze,
Silhouettes of distinguished gentlemen,
Long extinguished into the closing time
That never closes shop,
Tourists who amble about unsure of
What they are supposed to see and buy,
Just another lackluster part of the hoodlum’s
Tapestry dissected by her
Wanton gaze,
Like stars above a crooked smile,
Magnified by a nocturnal glass by a truant wild,
Starts the first blisters on the cheeks of dry leaves,
Hazes in the outskirts of a dead-end city escalate
Then into a childish blaze.