Their Pretty Mirages Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Bodies of airplanes moving over
The house again—the same place where I've been
Drinking my rum,
Where the sunlight is growing in spears over
The emptied space of my kidnapped
Mother:
Right next to the washing machines is supposed
To be her Pieta,
And I go there to dance and to weep,
But not to think of other things—
Outside, the butterflies are following the highway
Like gypsies not giving a pretty d#mn for the
Forests—
And I wonder how long it will be before they have
To give up,
And go back to the arms of their windmills who
Give them all of the time all their pretty mirages of love.