The Great Catastrophe Of Everything Mundane Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I don’t go out anymore,
Into that fine neighborhood where everyone’s
Smile opens in the plotted afternoon,
Where the busy traffic like fiery rapids lead,
Drown into suburban tranquility,
Where little girls’ fingertips burn casually up in the
Emulation of parkland trees -
Where is that but an impossible normalcy where
I before dreamed. Now
I have lapsed into my disappearing act.
I have begun to bloom into the real scars,
Where I drape upon myself the largest winter organs,
The impermeable tears of stricken angels,
And the trances storm clouds spell upon me
Smoking outside of work,
The inklings I had way back in distended high school
Class rooms whiles ago,
Cold chicken noodle soup and swing sets
A long ways from flat land and cornfields,
Or the amusement parks of out of work bakers and their kings;
Or the drive-ins where unfortunate teenagers go to make out
And swim before the great catastrophe of
Everything mundane- This
Is unavoidable. This is the way I go walking as
Purely as an usher alongside his lacquered pews,
The voices of strange faces distorted by burnished glass,
Just like the parallel
Lines of park lots and shopping malls
Never touching, not even thinking of looking up to
Touch, and thus carrying on in videogames and into other
Harmless obsessions.