Leaping Through Their Usual Skies Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Airplanes take off like
Medians of rain slicked light,
And you don’t have to deny it anymore,
Because it has already become,
This usual labyrinth of cheap inebriation
And days off, and children.
Looking so good next to the swimming pool
Of crenulated seems,
You could be anyone- you could be your
Sister,
As the alligators fawn into insouciant dreams,
And good Catholics go to church,
Continuing the axes of latitude and longitude
Of the first conquistadors who
Brought them here;
And I should be in school,
Learning better words, scribbling on the makeup
That is supposed to make me beautiful,
But instead I am underneath some shade somewhere,
Down by the encrusted mall of cemeteries,
Having my licks of boos:
I don’t even know if you are real anymore,
But you are real enough, I suppose, and I hang your
Dun limbs out on my tongue to dry,
As the usual airplanes go leaping through their
Usual skies.