The Airplanes Going To Places They Cannot Explain Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The house is beautiful: laying flat on my back in the fruiteria
Next to the water cooler and looking up at Alma,
How her juvenile curves float and molest the very air:
Her brown skin the allure in the adolescent graveyards of thirsting
Firemen;
And I’ll wake up and enjoy the workday next to her, and then
She’ll go back home an water her rabbits and spank her naughty children
On Cherry Road where more than a few Mexicans live:
All the pretty girls who are more pretty than the girls I went to school
With,
If only because they’ve never had to gone to school with anyone:
They been out picking in the fields and putting homeopathic tattoos
On the webs of their thumbs
Their shared sub consciousnesses waking up in the dusty grottos of
Guerro, Mexico, looking up like brown legged misfits
At the airplanes going to places that they cannot explain,
That they have no beliefs in.