The Supermarket Of Summits Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Bobby, the fairytale is yours: it sings
Through the houses, wilted away: down with the
Green spectacle of coffins
In the yard,
The snakes or the dogs
Who have eaten the lovely rabbits
Who were always your favorite,
While your mother was
Preoccupied and lactating
A pieta in the carport for the sport
Of her wonder:
And maybe you had already moved away
On that pre immaculate day:
And maybe that was the day
That the mountains flooded
And wept tears over the stones
For their lost soul:
And the airplanes got so low
As to become everything mystified:
And thus spent their fieldtrip of a day in kindergarten,
Spilling their passengers like
Open throated and overripe honeydew
Across the
Alpine swing sets until the wildflowers grew
With the powerful notes and enjambments
Above the cantankerous
Shoulder blades
And hullabaloos
Of the hikers who looked up to find them there,
Smiling as their hearts swelled,
And taking pictures;
But nothing more, sadly,
Before carrying on, guessing themselves
Little more than tourists
Trying to make lunch before noon
There again across
The supermarket of summits.