In Their Dances Of Airplanes Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Memories for a little while
Look like words,
Letters curled up for her in séances
While my dog gets drunk with
Me on my bed—
Then fade, the forgotten art of
Muses that once could start fire with
A baring of their toes—
Now have gone home to the
Average husband
And wait beside the opaqueness in
The theatre of his television—
No roses now stuck to the windows
Of parked cars—
Or ways to find out drunkenly which
Way she has gone home,
Following her like a wolf besides
The dog tracks and baseball diamonds
All in a drunken serenade and all
Beneath the soirée of the stewardesses
In their dances of airplanes.