On The Move Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Skin secretes this new day out on the
Open, banal field: Deep trumpets proclaim
What a traffic jam,
The interstate slithers with a corroded belly,
Moving slow now up past the shade of
The Bellefontaine Cemetery;
Wash basins in the grass, like drowned
Castanets, Sara Teasdale in her place, both
Pale and quiet- antique jubilee how the parade
Cannot be seen marching,
The devout students so quietly trying at the
University- images both real and mostly imaginary.
I shall move here, following the railway tresses,
Becoming again illusionary far removed from the
Sacred breath of my parents;
I will proclaim here, stutter, and skip here,
And lie down where the Nez Perce leaders embank
The sodden green haloed by the rustic green water tank;
I will suck life through my teeth, imbibing cheap
Liquors and anything garlanded and caustic enough to
Deny the existence of tourists more beautiful or studious
Than I.