Wings To Fly Poem by Robert Rorabeck

It is hot inside this truck,
Like a body inside a soul
When it shouldn’t
Be there,
When it should be the other way
Around,
And yet it has no place to go,
As stars divine like goldfish,
If that’s what they really do-
And lines are to the point
While airplanes seem to hover overhead
Feasting wild and light-eyed on the tragedy
Of our race
Which has so many legs, and eyes,
And wants,
But so words to describe those things,
And no wings to fly.