Today, the same old things- the new scars, <br />Ringless fingers, <br />And the way the clouds tended to move like <br />Somnulent cars <br />Across the nettled draperies; <br />Then didn’t I think of you; yes, the eerie <br />Aphorism of spilt milk- the drizzle of the snow <br />Plow your baby missed- <br />That was what you misquoted at the end of <br />The article, <br />And the sand lions sleep not so very deeply <br />In the silt, <br />Like Spanish glassed mothers in their patio, <br />Staring forlornly at the apathetic death from the <br />Eyes of the alligator down the mowed <br />Green- the very same one who ate Sancho <br />Panzo while hypnotized by a windmill: <br />And that is how you should have ended it, <br />Whistling like a Clint Eastwood movie since I’ve <br />Lost all that I’ve loved, or never loved, <br />Except for my dogs- and we go long-tongued anyways <br />Looking for the sweet spots where you might <br />Be lying carelessly disengaged in the slow-motion <br />Traffic jam of sky.<br /><br />Robert Rorabeck<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/in-the-slow-motion-traffic-jam-of-sky/
