Mortal Lines Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Filled up with longing but unprepared,
The preschooler weaves a scribbled web of
Tongueless alphabet anew-
The day swims like a heady swan around
A lake of sherbet carpet,
And on fieldtrips to the swings there is
A thermos of chick noodle soup which
Makes him sick,
But at the art museum there are murals of
Unfamiliar mothers with thrilling bosoms
Undressed for various courses,
And unexplainably he delays until scolded,
For one should not tarry too long especially
On lines which cannot be reasoned with,
Those shouted out to confront loneliness,
To remember the sea, and to call her to him.
Though she doesn’t come,
And these few words are still young and unwounded,
And should be put to sleep or at least to bed,
Before they get too tiresome,
And ahead of themselves on a darkest freeway
Realizing at the second of impact they are not immortal.