Wanting Her Memory Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The traffic doesn’t hear me when I am tucking to bed,
When the traffic has mostly done gnawing the bones of the road
Where angels float like smoke
Whipping jingoistic across the drum-beats of the world:
My mother and father have had cantankerous sex in the sports
Utility vehicle;
I have tried to read Stevens, while I pushed all day with the Mexicans,
And sojourned to and from our jobs laying grass
In the white bred neighborhoods;
Now the ants rest with their legs splayed like kittens;
And there is no rain,
And the traffic moves so far away, like the wound in my mind
Waiting to open a little further and pour the red visions that are
Wanting her memory.