Until The Weathers Became Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Panhandling myself out of doors, knowing such littleness of
Nothing is unkeen to survive,
And yet watching as the nubile virgins once again made such
Games in the little squares sectioned off in their yards
Beside the junked cars and the weather vanes;
And the words seemed to curl around like bright cobras and touch
Themselves,
And they were either making love or poisoning themselves unto
Death;
And when the airplanes roared above such wonderful pittance of
Such constructions,
It most certainly seemed as if they purred; and they turned around
An uncountable number of times in the air,
Dancing as they did so, like enamored mice in a garden,
Which held our attentions until the weathers became too distracting
To be ignored.