The Bereavement Of A Canoe Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Poem folding into the bereavement of a canoe—
Starting out from the backyards of
Two decades ago—
Little alphabets spent like fireworks in
The penny arcades of wishing wells—
So few words we have to know to go to work,
To share ourselves with drive-thrus
And tellers
And the make-believes of the cashed in
Super-heroes—this is what It means to be
Alive and selling things—
As a princess gets her hair cut in the car port—
And looks up into the clouds building—
A tornado warning in the flambé of clouds—