The Day's Expected Cremation Poem by Robert Rorabeck

There you are in a park I cannot believe in—
New lines for the same old girls
Who have run away and abandoned—
A latchkey's words into another misused night,
The homeless traffic spilling over
The asphalt cliffs
And into a crocodile's tear—as the tourisms
Melt away—
Surcease of melting snow burning off their
Engines—
Beautified renunciations—loves put to an end
At the midway of a fair—
Lonesome holidays like predators devouring
The heart's bivouacs who are
Camped too near to a careless heaven—
Looking down from the keystone from where
All of the young girls have fallen—
And high school is over on the bloody streets—
Maiming the survivors—
And over them, like the pledge of allegiance—
The locus using their legs to pray—
Yellow and cerulean—
Violinists molting in the afternoon into the
Day's expected cremation.