The Satellite's Inebriate Shanties Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The lights are out and set the mood.
The children are perfect on the green carpet-
Ceiling fans are quiet, as if its in their thing,
But the tinsel on the Christmas tree is
Glittering;

And I saw you there, because I could not sleep,
My heart pullulating its nocturnes,
The grass’ perfumes wafting through the house
We don’t own anymore, but stay to see
You weeping on the pristine shore:

Where I thought to show you,
How I wept like I was your brother, only my soul
Was a knick in wood,
A discoloration in the eye- A soldier who survives
With his body,
The bird out of season without wings,

I thought to tell with you under the crude patina,
The satellite’s inebriate shanties,
But you looked at me and I could even tell, that your
Soul would bate the imperfect time and again;
And you’d already cast it into the waves,
To see what you had found, and there was nothing more
There for me- You had set it free.