The Sweetest Songs Of The Innocent Cars Poem by Robert Rorabeck

It happened that I loved without looking at myself in the
Mirror,
Or I wasn’t here: I had just driven home from Miami and I wanted
To bring Alma fireworks,
But maybe she doesn’t love me anymore:
God knows she doesn’t want any more flowers or poetry;
And she doesn’t know who Octavio Paz is;
And I haven’t finished Labyrinth of Solitude, which is just as bad:
And the sea is as yellow as cream,
And as the sun set it turns and grows so much custard that the gulls
Sleep in every caesuras as if they were soft mailboxes,
And the stewardesses stop their planes and come down and coo and
Show their breasts: and they all become mothers who spend
Their soft and brown afternoons feeding their young in the flea markets
Underneath the open and soaring overpasses of the sweetest songs
Of the innocent cars.