Rob Talbert: The Last Scene in Casablanca

Everything’s already for sale
so I shoplifted color from the world,
brought you and I closer to static
on dead channels. Now I confuse
flowers with garbage. Now I can
say your eyes are the same as airplanes.

I still desire flight in this world, waiting
greedily for my turn, my path through
the city. We’ll fly over the art gallery
and sigh, land in central park and try
to guess whether it’s autumn. Some
will be angry. They’ll say it’s all over.

What demands ever sprang from metal?
That it never stay warm? Never only kiss you
in a crash? Strangely enough here we are,
held up and breathing, also in love but I
never did ask to be sure.

I’ve made up my mind to believe in gray,
to take from this trip the miracle that the
actions you take are what backgrounds
are made of. The city knew this years
ago and tried to tell me with sirens and barking
dogs but how could I realize? If the sky still exists

without blue then you can be a better lover by
taking me up into it. Far away from all things
expected and made of traffic.



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