Their Immortal Station Wagon Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Gold digging serpents,
Where is your gold not that the fourteen karot
Day gold is over,
And broken its mold. When the art teachers had
Sweet tits
Like treats,
Tits like for candy for trick-o-treats;
And the traffic is over,
And she’s just waking up and beginning to serve
Her yeasty liquors to her slurping pups:
And college football
And meatballs,
And things that last forever because they don’t
Feel a need to die,
As I realized today just exactly I was:
I was not beautiful, but I was dusty and properly formed,
And I could make my way through Kansas’
Corn:
I could make-believe I was alive and fine,
With nothing but the silver-fisted moon occupying my
Time,
Saying these things like the truancies of bottle rockets
With the windows open,
And the sky opening up to angels,
To little insignificant angels in brown paper bags
Like hidden things brought home from a fair of turns,
Or taken over from dark closets and lit to
Burn
Anonymously on the darkened stoop while the feverish
Cat is always watching the young lovers so tightly
Clenched and dripping the first conceptions
Of their immortal station wagon.