Called Her Home Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Traffic continues on like four-legged sorts
Of galaxies pin wheeling away,
Traveling home, or to gentleman’s clubs:
The pretty girls pick up bouquets in the surf,
And they never look at you-
They never pick up books written by men with
More voodoo than you:
The terrapin sleep in the crux of a misspelled log:
They watch the women nakedly down
In the surf:
The most resilient flowers bloom in the sloughs,
Tourniquets of roses they pick for the darkest
Pirates with entire cathedrals of candles burning in
Their unruly beard,
Who lay the maidens on coquina slabs and make
Them sing like ornaments,
In the short days time traveling to when the first conquistadors
Saw the teal lions near the flower shops in the
Waves and called her home to dinner.