The Constant Billboards Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Hounds on a hill named Gertrude
Lassoing the last possessions that have come down
From the cross,
Hillbillies sick with oil, their dogs yammering
Of a boy named Elvis:
So this night beats its hullabaloo, through which
The possums are
So cantankerous, overturning in the spumes of
That dousing earth,
Each one in a phylum of its decree, pinching and
Black eyed
Smelling like jasmine and junk yards:
Serial killers who curse the long jaunts of airplanes
Like the flight plans of demigods,
And the fireworks that die, after stealing all of our money,
Memories of our patriotism
Lie in the open jaws of burry weeds,
Cenotaphs whose cathedrals the eager ants come so
Hungrily too after the soul of the earth promises them so
Softly underneath the constant billboards and after the rains.