Just Out Of Reach Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Entrain the beautiful adjectives,
That’s what you do, like tools of a scientists
Out naked on the steps,
A bottle of beer, a can of pep,
And the day rally’s on: it’s a speedy centipede
Who has forgotten or cursed all of its
Old gods and boyfriends,
And this is what it does,
But combs the crew cuts of dungeons,
And gives beautiful tans to monsters who look
Up through the crackerjack fjords
And yawn like a thousand sharp sainces,
Each tooth pretending to be a water fountain
For the little birds
And girls of makebelieve,
And thus they swoop down all attracted
And are caught up by the misplacement of shady classrooms,
In cages forever underneath the sink of tulips
Where they tend to sway and bask
Just out of reach of the great poets,
Stumbled upon by the minor poets who do not know the
Not to their inconsequential salvation,
But they are too eager to way, and thus they stare through
All the afternoon of talk shows and lost airplanes,
Looking at the beautiful harems of sweet
Girls and their songbirds
Who are even more beautiful and sweet because
They are lost forever
Down in the shallow cracks where the sunlight reaches,
Just out of reach.