The strangers proceed through the yellow air.
by Robert Rorabeck
They are not quite super-heroes,
Though once they were acquaintances,
With their arms outstretched
And yawning in the impoverished parks, or
In little turn of the century rooms
Of silence filled with scribbling insects:
Their eyes are the saddest things
When they go down the
Intersections of faded walls
Looking like blind people for their next love:
Nervously, they chew the asses out of pencils,
Not yet knowing if they are passing,
And it is raining outside and how will they get home.
Eventually, not even super-heroes
Can fly in such weather, though they are
Too afraid to ask the opposite sex for a ride:
There on the walkways, they write
Their names in Old English on the wet
Cement and wait for it to dry in the rain-
Eventually, they will manage to look up again,
And everything will be gone,
Or starting over....