The Young Mother's Nocturnal Eyes Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Hard tables waiting the brittle hand,
Going down like resilient trees meant to burn;
And the wolves leaping- leaping,
Singing Christmas carols to her smoking hair-
High up in the open wounds,
The bloody noses carports carved from the sports
Of whispering screams-
Those empty pools where the youngest of gods
Once meant to reside,
Like flamboyant tadpoles- evaporates, made into
A pot luck: road kill
For a silver truck, and the moon glows wide and speeding
Over the bones lashed together of
Families that can never be separated, tourists all together
On a somnolent parade- going this way quickened by
Their lathers- and the sports provided by the comely
Nature of the young mother’s nocturnal eyes.