The Evolving Overpass Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Now I am going through the pages
As I am still standing here—
In my little house at the end of the woebegone
Street—having touched my lips to
The crumpled list of muses—trying to remember
To do some good for her:
To go out on my bicycle on holidays, to buy
Turkey or ham—to get as far as the intercostal,
Where the waves become as tamed as polished
Jewels,
As my homes settle down around the vanishing
Animals, the tree frogs and the vipers
Who are not here anymore—maybe they were
Never here much, anyways—
Maybe they were never meant to last—like a
Franchise on its last leg,
Limping for a way home beneath the apathetic
Penumbras of the evolving overpass.