Every Night Your Beauty Is Stolen Poem by Robert Rorabeck

If there is beautiful, it is in the faces looking away;
Or it is in the warm and itchy bodies pooling upon the
Tennis courts of an insouciant housewife’s
Day:
The condominiums who strut out like hydras, and the young couples
Who curl up to them like song birds who are loving their
Pythons,
Or the children who are lost again like field goals who never clear
The pylons;
They are like new springs growing breasts and migrating once or
Twice in their beautiful lives, while the Mexicans and Guatemalans
Cross the deserts,
Only to fall back down again, emolliated, naked organs corsaged with
Wounds,
Houswives slathered down into their song-bird kitchens;
And I see you now and again here like a centerfold folded up into
The bedroom where like some flowers,
Every night your beauty is stolen.