Strangers Of Science Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The same streets patter
With younger feet- The light bulbs
Changed,
Strangers of science fly overhead-
She lays her educated head down
Upon an alike pillow of a fresh bed,
Her name something like an orchard
Some months after the frost of
My touch,
Bearing the novel mister’s fruit:

I like to believe that each line is like
Blown glass cooled by the lips
Which still scar me
Underneath the sun reflecting all the
Washers and dryers in the world,
Doesn’t see a need to understand-

It too readily proceeds beneath
The Mississippi,
Where souls like old mother’s sheets
Are blowing
In the anonymous, open throated mass,

Save for the eyes of the better
Saviors who yet proceed overhead like
The lips of signs and fresh-painted billboards,
Curled in the hand,
Hatching coos down the runway’s mind.