Still Very Beautiful Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Numb wounds on the quiet playground,
While she is waiting for her purchased snow;
And grandmother is no where around;
There isn’t even a flag this way,
There is no immortality in patriotism,
Though I would still fight for her, if I could
Have my way,
And I still find my way onto those things,
The silent wounds that I collect in special flight,
The way I try to collect her sorority every night,
As she nods,
Like a neighbor or a salmon along its way,
Until the mountains are out of beer,
The horses are dying in the pasture,
And I am revealed for the harmless murderer
Of paper,
So the airplanes fly low, and they are not real:
They don’t even have real things to say,
But this is how they go,
And even dreaming, dreaming back and forth,
Almost Herculean,
Aren’t their dreams imperfect,
But they are still very beautiful.