Earth Angel Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Poets spill words from their lips
Like unattended gas tanks at the pump.
Spitting like babies they learn reckless
Sounds they mistake for heaven’s joy,
When it is even more than that,
Her legs running in the humidity atop
The concrete, and saying I love you to
Her shadow is some kind of earthen poem
Amidst the dandelions and crippled bees,
And the ants spewing from the crack in
The sidewalk like an overused womb.
Recognizing the verbs of her lunch, her
Lips smack like flames licking candles,
And her drenched shorts suit her bum
Like a nun’s habit rife with the smell of
Blackened persimmons tangled about the river in
The slender woods. Then there is hardship
When she doesn’t return the thought,
But keeps right on with her exercise, not
Knowing it only makes the poetry better,
More prodigious until it is spewing as if
From a cartoon bubble out of the paper mouth
Of a bullhorn. Thus, stymied by the interest,
And now confused between the old lies and
The musing’s truth, she gives in and becomes
A fine catch, a trophy of some thousand lines,
The busty aphrodisiac of the art form until
Her and it are indiscernible and magnified,
So her areolas take on themselves the aspects
Of twin moons balancing milky cherries,
Dishes served to infant kings,
And her lips drunken boats torn free from their redskin
Haulers: Even better than a doctor’s wife,
Or a lawyer’s- she is like the thing professors
Find without looking, a soft paramour of the
Craft, an attentive student with her blouse unbuttoned,
A singing interest of poetic actualization,
Now so like a paper doll folded at the elbows
And knees, a book of words in the form of a
Dove. And then again just a girl jogging
Along the road beside the university, as sunlight
Skips through your window and gives a fit of
Erections which over last a decade.