Into The Crepescule Of Her Olive-Skinned Neighborhood Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Bottle caps under sewing the spikenard:
Where there is jubilant literature and students of
Premodonnas and words as plentiful and
Carnivorous blue jays,
But also where I hate to think of her making love
Under the big and huffing circus tents,
Because I imagine that is what she does:
Kind of how I found out tonight that there are
Still women coming down from other worlds,
But stepping down and looking real good and
Enjoying the moment
Like the fair moving beside the freshest ports,
And it doesn’t bother me to have to look into her eyes,
Even though I know it should:
Because she just goes on forever, whistling the minerals
Of a Nubian world, and this is the splendor curling
Up into the crepuscule of her olive-skinned neighborhood.