The Rainstorms Don'T Exist Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Call me until I rise,
Necropolis-
The dogs are scraping at the door,
Or are they dogs?
Let the sunlight eat you-
And let it in.
Make the dinner beautiful,
Extending your jaw and clench,
Creating a soldierly profile:
Tattoo mandibles of insect royalty-
Everyone deserves to look beautiful
Before they die
(If just for a little while) ,
Soldier boy:
Observe all the scars and bruises,
The imperfections that yellow-jackets
Have, like us,
A very short life span
Just above a spreading stain,
Children crying on a bus: The rainstorms
Don’t exist,
The chickens are hypnotized
And in the sand,
Doors that never close leading out to
The holes where our twins
Live,
Wingless-amusement dropping from the
Sky
Who land like frogs or princes
Singing all around the little girl on the swings
Who used to bare your name,
Who doesn’t remember,
Kicking her feet for some purpose or
Momentum,
Becoming a waveless miracle:
Will she ever retire?