Upon Your Vulpine Lawn Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Passing along,
a heartbeat for a blue letter-
Other words that disassemble:
This is America,
and we are made to preamble along our ways-
Girls that take off early tend to amble,
Halfway studies of the boardwalks along
The busied highways-
In the open air musical halls it gets noisy,
Little boys, such as Pinocchio,
such as my son,
have forgotten to look both ways:
But I have made them up,
Anyways-
and all of the commercials are filled with
The cauldrons which awaken the dead-
Dead authors whom I have loved along the
Ways-
Cadavers of my elementary school that
I have called up against the waves-
I have loved you here,
tattooed into a spot of anonymous epiphany,
whilst other people have been watching the
traffics which come and go both ways-
The airplanes whom shoot up as bottle rockets
who apex to kiss the lips of
clouds only die as butterflies do reaching
the foothills of the mountains of old
Mexico-
schools awaken again and again at
the mailboxes of dawn-
the love letters lying sweating, waxen,
upon your vulpine lawn.