The Weedy Tombs Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Sore wounds of hopscotch:
The sunstones blistering their lips only on their cousin
Tomb stones:
The whole world a type writer being thrown-
Roses dying in a bottle of red:
The whole world the scribble of what I wrote,
Trying to bleed forever what she said:
And she drives home again with him,
When she never even wanted to leave:
The mechanical reindeer foraging on the stony lip of
A suburban river,
Their masters far away, tucked behind the garage:
The children returned from school:
Tucked in;
The grapes on the vine that the alligators’ grin:
And airplanes in the sky,
As is the golden rule: sky writers proselytizing Jesus
With smoky jizz over the highway
As the traffic streams with their own delusions:
And the tractors in their fields-
With my love lost on her way to work- the mice are
Gossiping, the midgets give gifts in the
Palmettos down from which the canals yearn slowly
Up from which the buttercups grow,
Attracting the clowns with bleeding souls-
In the unfurling yards which blossom as they are mowed;
As the horses are groomed
Over the weedy tombs of the immortally wounded.