The Leaping Days Of The Seemingly Religious Aeroplanes Poem by Robert Rorabeck

It’s time for the dour lying seashells,
In ways to partake and fill the sky above the earth.
She used to tell me that there wasn’t
Any use in this,
But I told her there wasn’t any soul in correct
Grammar.
My mother is pouring water from the upstairs window.
She is completely naked, and I sneak in liquor,
And think of ways to toast invertebrates,
To remember the catholic church I watched her once
And then twice put on miracle plays;
Then she slipped into the nests of other boys.
Their tongues shared illegal substances on the verge of
Holy romance with the silent crèches at the edge of
The parking lot, but I lived far away-
I had no time to romanticize their salty foreplays, but
Stayed up late at night and thought of all the girls leaping
On airplanes, leaping like the sky held no gravity for them-
Astral pilots in navy blue uniforms and perfumed nylon
Which disappeared into the canopies of the unreal-
They knew all the worm holes that would take me back to
High school, that would teach me how to feel;
Married now, middle aged, they hang their dime store haloes
From the broken wings of their gray daddy’s bed boards:
Crenulated eyes which sometimes sleep off and on for days,
And they too remember the leaping days of the seemingly
Religious aeroplanes.