The Graves Of Conquistadors And Defeated Indians Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Threads disavow with evening,
And rental cops shut down the illusions
Of the roller coasters’ movement,
And no money is exchanged in the park
At night, as Mickey Mouse takes off his head
And touches the princess inappropriately,
And the offspring of tourism sleep oblivious
In roadside motel rooms, shushed by the narcolepsy
Of pines, drowsing, drowsing,
Unaware of the invisible stains and the terrain
Of microscopic insects, the paltry nuisances
Lovers exchange for free;
When my teeth ache, I reminisce of such places,
The landscaping of purified water that overspills
In between sitcoms and botoxed thighs,
The never ending parade of expensive automobiles
Flowing to and from those tributaries,
A concrete river, a ribbon twined for hurricanes,
And open mouths drooling near the burning sugarcane,
And orange groves over spilling like microcosms of
Creation, and homeless men betting at the racetrack,
As the alligators wait to be handfed on the borders
Of the scalding parking lot,
And little children growing up half-abandoned leaving
Trails of breadcrumbs through Walmarts, and
Busy careless intersections, until they are solidified
And made real, and turn gray in front of the television
Set where the rat is inviting them into his mouth,
Charging grand admissions through the splendiferous
Parades of hucksters and talking rodents, the landscaping
Lushly green and overgrowing the graves of
Conquistadors and defeated Indians.