The Endless Loam Poem by Robert Rorabeck

This night is helpful when you don’t
Want to believe in colors anymore,
Or her name:
And it is only the mosquito piercing your
Inner thigh,
And the airplanes are flying low,
But the stewardesses don’t care:
You’ve had delusions of immortality again,
But they aren’t serving you:
Like a wilting firefly you sit and mope,
And the sun comes up and you get swept
Underneath the fiberglass table to become
A dusty show for rats,
And she makes love to men of her own class,
And the swing-sets tremble always wanting the
Hinges of human bone,
And you still love her but she is never home:
Neither day nor night is right for her love,
As the airplanes fly low across the swarthy
Caesuras of the endless loam.