This Meaningless Traffic Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The night is bad almost like any other,
And the words come out of the open wounds,
Pass by me like owls teaming together over
Wayward trailer parks,
And this is the way they come, half exposed over
The shivering fichus and the pink tongues of airplants:
And the cars parked in mass in the lots beside
The airport,
Then planes leaping like freed girlfriends
Going like steamy bottle rockets and seltzer all the way
To Colorado,
To buy wine, to get an excuse to look into a good woman’s
Indescribable eyes,
While I only eat fast food and glut next to bosomy coffins
Who remind me so well of my mother,
And when I get fully inebriated I no longer care how
Ugly I am or how luckily I have failed, but go to sleep
With the friendly earth warms next to the open pits
The tranquil beds and plots for everyone,
Forgotten in between the better vendors of me,
Because in the morning there will be so many unhealthy
Bouquets as they are burying grandmother or one of my
More unwholesome ants,
Letting me know that it is yet still too early for me,
And yet I see how she must come,
The lady in the shadows jacketed with sharp hornets
With eyes that never close
Who cares nothing for all this meaningless traffic.