The Angels And Leaping Airplanes Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Savaged gumshoes into the forget-me-nots
Of horticultures—
I drink $3.50 cent wine from 7-11 on
New Years until
I do not have to believe anymore
That I am a bard who cannot sing—
A griot who has lost all of the voice of
Africa—
Or that the world can be discovered and
Thus molested by its highways
As by its amusement parks—
There is still an ocean,
And sometimes I think of her,
While my wife is on the phone,
Or my child is reading a book—
And the flowers that have wilted can be
Perceived as a beautiful failure of
Enterprise—
In the morning, there will be more programs
On the television,
And come another season,
More Christmas trees to cut down for my
Father—
As I am certain that my wife will never
Leave me, just like the graveyard so far
Beneath the angels and leaping airplanes.