To The Shoulders Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Each railway bends to the shoulders,
Like seahorses looking around for kaleidoscopes:
And it just so happens that they cannot find any better
Numbers—
Each pigeon sleeps in the apoplexy of its rainbows—
Trash and concrete tied up
In the urbanity
Of sickly sweet espionage—
And the daylight floods like a dump truck over
The hedgerows of all over the place—
Wives are touching down wherever they can—
An apiary of wives discombobulated in their neighborhood—
Like sickly sweet cartoons learning kung fu—
Like the rhymes of the Telluride amusement parts while
Your parents swing and skate—
But in the morning, they will be taking down the airplanes
From the mobiles of clouds—
And your wife will have already closed her eyes:
She will have already gone to sleep.