For My Night Of Nothing Poem by Robert Rorabeck

No more poems for my night of nothing,
My soul of nothing—
I am lost underneath the bus outside of the
Woebegone daydreams of a high school
I am still bleeding from—
The airplanes seem to tackle themselves,
Trying to devour their silver, winged
Jewelry while seeing down their throats
To give dark red roses that don't
Exist to the stewardesses who are flying in
Them anyway—
As then Christmas happens and
Then the summer-
Two things leaping in a zoetrope,
Like friends taking the place of lovers—
Like a sky pretending not to be in love with
The sea.