Yard $ales In The Mouthy Storm Poem by Robert Rorabeck

A few men have the banner of songs,
And pin wheeled whistles on their lapels,
Something winning up their sleeves
When they walk into the restaurant of
Devourous dins,
The way polite and poker-nosed people
Eat the meat other people have prepared for them,
the way socialites concern
Over their marbled ham chased with wine,
and the veins which stick
Like petroglyphs between kerneled teeth,
Then the evening becomes their theatre,
And they open the sky up for them, and ask,
“Is this all right? ”
And it is, they suppose, as they make their
Money in the fluid ways of ancient celebrations,
The charnel hums, the subtle electrocutions at
The dinner tables,

You can see their brains pulsing up their noses.

Out in her front yard, they keep their motors
Humming, so she knows that they are waiting,
And she must hurry,

For such sunny men are well known to be
Migratory,
For fine weather is known to pass
Like unlined leather across her ass,

Verily, she leaps from the window in her veil,
And he punches the gas,

And they will not wait for long,
Paper marriages in their springy arcs
Burn like yard sales in the mouthy storm.