The Curious Fingers Of Their Open Hands Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I am unable to return the soils of these yards:
The houses sit as fat as pigs, and the sky usually tumbles;
And to the even numbers it is so much bliss,
When the cars pull in and the fingers fumble over
Their silverwares:
Then far and wide the airplanes fly over the somber facades,
And the weathers roll in as sure as curtains,
And the days bypass themselves and get even more brighter
And luxurious and full of the laziness that they are known for:
And I have seen her here sitting as still
As something that knows for sure what she is, while
The traffic moves like the cut out animals in a zoetrope,
Seeming to laugh and turn around as little children come to feed them
With the curious fingers of their open hands.