Con Quien Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The bodies peel out and
Make friends while I
Have been languishing here
For a
Diatribe of angels;
I guess it’s true that I hate
Your cars,
And the ways that you
Drive
So insouciantly past
The Mexican family playing
Con Quien underneath
The overpass;
But they are just as
Happy to be ignorant of
You.
And this is just a game
I tell to myself while the
Airplanes recede
That way to the ocean,
And your reflection
Recedes back into
The antique diamonds
And prisoms
Sweated from the
Epidermis of the
Thoughtless pool.