Resurrected And Reoccuring Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The trains seem to peel good in unicorn
Season:
Offering up their goods in linear cavalcades in open
Aired processions
In one long continuous arc through the sugar pines:
And they grow up storming through mountains,
Smelling the nudeness of birch,
And listening to the highfalutin echoes as they cry over
Fools gold in the grottos of suffocated
Canaries;
And they carry the working girls through the midnight
And into the new parking lots
Of petrified mother marries where the johns are waiting for
Them with perfect bowties
Underneath the silver moons skipping like coins in
An uncountable wishing well above the
Bald and hoary throats of the mountains in their smoking
Rooms;
And though they finally curl around their stations, lactating
And collecting the Christmas presents
In a topless room that is chilly and airy, they have to
Admit that it doesn’t get any easier:
But all of the animals hush around them, and even with all of
Nature’s love making them to stirring,
It doesn’t help them still- even with the lights out
And their engines purring: their beauty is perpetually resurrected
And reoccurring.