Like A Conquistador Atop The Roofs Of Cars Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The midway isn’t even here: perhaps it is going overboard:
The very fair has disappeared,
And the only pilots are cursing the addictions of weathervanes:
The landing strip burns in blue gas,
All of its brides corpses, alluring- their supersternal notches
Diademed with the very vapors that they tear;
And I end up spent like a conquistador atop the roofs of
Cars: a shell,
A cenotaph- a vague monument about to disappear, while
The school children rhyme in chalk, and eventually their lions
Jump through so many rings that they return home,
And lie on the kitchen table and on the floor,
In their mouths carrying the carcasses of saltwater tears
And watermelons- and the delicate fingers of latchkeys dab there,
And saturate their hungers from the milking tear ducks
Of the feral natures who briefly became trained to do all that they
Could for them.