Perfection In The Perfect Lines Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I have looked for perfection in the perfect
Lines of a highway, diving equally like a fair cake;
Or on the sweltering horizon of done where
School buses skip like yellow, wavering stones
In their waterless mirages, the way the killers move
In their dress of heat- I gave my sister 200 dollars
At her wedding, and now she hates me even as she
Bandages up a stray kitten and sends it out to meet
A rain so sure that it will turn to snow by latening
Afternoon, and then upon the tawny shoulders of
Little brown housewives, the most privileged class
In their cavorting, leaping out like lost and wandering
Elves into their amnesiac shopping, giving off the
Alluring smell of freshly baked sugar cookies:
Almost obtainable but perfect helpless in a sudden whiteout
Where brilliant cars skid helplessly with sudden fireworks,
And then rest, canned up again telephone poles and
Evergreens, spilling such splendid guts of gift rapped
Christmas gifts, while their leggy owners stumble out
Perplexed and bummed, their cleavage already working
Out magic for a stud fest, even though they don’t
Remember this store.