To Return On Time Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Succession of crepuscule into night on my littlest of
Streets.
My vocabulary becomes dimmer, while the mailboxes
Shrink outside,
And the airplanes keep on rushing to the sea
In to which have sunken so many ships embarking from the
Names of her memory- and it gets quieter
And then even the stars have their darkness- there becomes
A greater folklore in that place without the eyes
For fires- for any and all sorts of creatures can live
In there- a museum without walls into which the blind
Men thrive,
Suckling the nubile women in their gossamers of shows,
Like foxes pulling down the vines:
The trees kneeling at the field’s summit, the trucks passing
Cautiously-
And someone overseeing whose senses are kind,
Promising us that we shall arrive unhurried, the produce of
Our labor slung over our shoulders like lap sacks of
Pregnancies- and our young wives waiting for us
In the parks of softly lit trailers- making offerings to a comfortable
Nature for their husbands to return on time.