The First Car Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Graveyards get tired and lay down:
Mountain lions lay off their blue saddles too, and forest fires
Finally nuzzle like birthday wishes amidst the
Cinders waiting for a Hollywood forest of aspens to grow out of
What they made surrender:
For a second there is perfection, and a snail is the most guttural
Thing, pearling like the open wrist of a bitten into apple
Before that too browns- and the first car is made:
And the conquistadors begin their biddings and shouting and
Start forcing their love onto whoever they can;
Just as I awaken to another chapter of lonely morning, and clean my
Yellow house waiting for your perfectly brown soul to knock and enter.