Her Little Tail Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Days are coming in and looking too
Like sweet young daughters:
I see her eyes, my eyes run down the
Alluring cataracts of her thighs
Too- and they are just beginning,
And her eyes are caracoled by sweet heliotrope
Like forbidden plums;
And her hair is blonde and winsome as if
For a almost boy,
While her grandmother is plump and harmless-
So I pick her out a tree, because it is all I
Can do to her,
And the clouds and helicopters come through
The sky,
Seeming to circle around her things,
And they are all wondering why, if they are wondering,
All that we would like to do with her.
And we help her to her car, like a honey bee on
A crutch,
And she buds right there- she smells like yet to
Ripen lunch,
And she is driven away like a heroin in an inconspicuous
Fairytale,
Like an almost blue swan before her
Adolescent storm-
Wondering how it will be more possible
To be more beautiful still; but she will,
and it hurts too much to watch her leave,
Wagging wagging her little tail.