Like Lost Airplanes In A Week Of Clouds Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Words like lost airplanes in a week of clouds—
The sun upon the summit of another birthday,
My grandmother with a soul of sea shells,
And other words that seem to defeat themselves—
Like lovers crisscrossed on their birthdays—
Where the righteous men have to linger over
The precipice while
My wife thinks she is drunk and speaking
With her aunt on the phone,
The baby and other planets kicking inside of
Her belly—
And the espionage of another muse is kicked
To the sea while the birds
Like old people
Turn into another hotel for the night
Warmed by the armpit of
Disney World—attended to and paying tips
To the fiberglass angels
Just to hear
And to pretend
That everything is alright.