The Unopened Gas-Station Of My Homeless Appalachia Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The Unopened Gas-Station Of My Homeless Appalachia



Chicken-wire smothers my
Artichoke heart,
She adores her young, athletic organs-
I sleep alone in the park-
A gypsy of fiberglass and
Stucco satellites-,
She hangs breathless from the nape
Of sweet young constellations
Perfumed of antiquarian nard,
Like reclining ingénues;
Stormy and drenched,
Up all hours at the unopened gas-station
Of my homeless Appalachia;
She breastfeeds in the restaurants and
The kitchens across the fertile divide, while
The pull strings and wires of my
Marionettes go unabused-
I sign the check and tip my
Hat,
Grinning madly at the table in the shrinking
House- With no one to hold my hand,
And carry the other half of the bill
Here at the dinner parties of old news.

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Robert Rorabeck

Robert Rorabeck

Berrien Springs
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