Like Angels Rounding First Base Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Mainstreams of white pages—the Mexicans play
Outside, all of them remembering
The frontera they needed to endure to get into
Oz—
The airplanes jump across their brown shoulderblades
Like angels rounding first base—
They can stare up at them even though they do
Not know what to believe—
And their wives can threaten to run away,
But they all know that they will never leave:
Those things that were made to weep inside of houses.
The faithful dog sleeps at the foot of the bed,
But she keeps her heart somewhere else,
And I am left wondering if
It is anywhere close to me.