The Barren Country Of Hucksters And Anonymous Graves Poem by Robert Rorabeck

America is becoming less on the level,
Drying out, it is the time of shuck an jive,
Where hurricanes interceded.
Winnow what you have, distill
The diamonds and put the coal back into
Stockings, hang them well,
And cut wood, and watch your neighbor
Closely.
Soon there will be four post tents higher
Than the skyscrapers, and more cigarettes,
Vermillion and chartreuse, and laughing men
With sequenced shirts and ripened bellies,
And horse racing, and dog racing, and
Gambling on the calligraphies of the
Baseball diamond. They will call us in to
The smell of crackerjacks and cotton-candy,
Along curtained corridors where outside the
Wolves are prowling, and babies cry.
There in artificial habitats conjunctions holding
Hands with Siamese twins, and people placing
Bets on if they are one word with two minds,
Or two children with a tiny soul, and successful
Women in magical stilettos, with hyphened
Last names which whisper snidely of the
Bourgeoisie, though they can‘t remember how it went.
Lips painted by crayons, they
Toss water bottles to rats, and the sun hibernates
Inside while the traffic migrates. Paper airplanes
And more fireworks, and men calling on the streets,
Beckoning you inside where the women are dancing,
And living dolls, and caravans of pilgrims lost
In blue flies, and dead boys failed into ditches, legs
Erected for examinations, one foot bare and boiling,
The other caved in blue synthetic. So this is what
I’ve seen, and this is what I say. Now the dogs
Are calling, and grandmother is laughing, and on
The hillside the wind is rolling over the barren country
Of hucksters and anonymous graves.