The Many Lives Of Inconsequential Things Poem by Robert Rorabeck

It so happens that the places that we go all turn around,
Like gawkers smacking their lips at the fastly shooting umbrae
Of fireworks in the
Skies- Both over Mexico,
As over America, and the truck stops in between where the
Cicadas take off their early springtime
Of clothes,
Like stewardesses unhinge their bras in the springtime
Of Wisconsin,
Or in the warm layovers of France: while all of this has had its
Turn at speaking,
Caracoling like little girls playing in the fitful elements
Of another Midwestern storm, that overturned all of the trailer parks
Like crawdads in the muds the dogs have been sniffing,
Their snouts toweling
The vulpine industry because that is how it works- the trees
Like a cerulean headdress around them, or that the sky-
The benchmarks of terrapin like spilled milk under her heels as
I pushed my muse on the swings near the sea
Months ago, far across the many lives of inconsequential things that fly.