Over Neighborhoods Like Yours Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Wake up into the distilling mortifications of
Buzzards,
Because the day is Sunday and wrecked. There was a little
Bit of rain,
But it has stopped, and birds sing irritatingly:
Your wife has told you to go to bed, but there is going to be a football
Game,
And you can recline like a snake grown more intelligent in his
Own game
In which your house is his golden nest:
He is speaking to your wife in the next room over, in the kitchen
Or the lanai:
He is stealing her away from you, and you can watch it happen
If you wanted to,
But you don’t care: they are building a bright fair upstate
Somewhere,
And you plan to leave her and go to there, once this Sunday is over,
And the game has won over the day,
Your children slipping like starving and yet curious cenotaphs
In the little rooms over which the clouds break like elegant
Rivers, worshipful over neighborhoods like yours.