The Migratory Thoughts Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I can hear the traffic, its empirical migrations,
And the power lines silently tremulous easily killing
The nation,
And long time lovers come in under the 100 watt
Glow,
And buy pumpkins; and I do not know what they
Must know,
Long time lovers- And I read poems about her hair;
Oh, if she were here,
I could show her the flag which I raise every day for
Her,
And we could watch the traffic flow,
And disbelieve that we are anything-but a harmonious
Creation,
Sitting back and counting cars, each one a luxury
Flowing through the wind’s hair which steals the quiet
Thoughts of the pine trees,
And sends their children scattering into the mouths
Of crocodiles and other places,
And has no sense of this- or she of myself- If she were
Here, she would be as good as gone-
Her other men swinging axes cutting songs-
I want to keep her from a distance, and feel her without
Her ever having to believe in me,
To become crippled, a ruined winsome, so that she might
Happen through me without even moving,
Which would make me more beautiful and swift footed
Than all the migratory thoughts under the moon or sun.