Like An Infant Of Terrible Daydreams Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Narcoleptic, waving in their kelp skirts
Who fall fat onto the highway,
Bruised, unshelled terrapin:
The traffic doesn’t mind them, all their
Breathing body parts bisected by the
Yellow lines
Painted by their overweight highwaymen-
And the sun is doing its pushups,
And I really want to cross the street
Pick her up halfway and figure out
The positions of her pinked engine and cranks-
I imagine though, that her eyes are
Oil tanks in full swoon,
That busty cadaver- she makes me a loon,
And the cypress thrashed with the red
Tongues of air-plants, waiting impatiently
For their pollinated lunch- For us to come,
And she’s still sleeping like a white godiva fish
Tank- I would put her to my scarred
Flesh and flex and wax unbelievably to her, like an infant
OF terrible daydreams- while the school buses
Rushed,
And the housewives thumped in a fever dream of
Jolly cabaret- and new cenotaphs of houses
Went up straight on stilts all around us-
And our old lovers melted away into their children
Who shot straight up like thunder brush to college,
While we remained in a time capsule of holidays,
Watching the bird of time crescent straight above us
Never losing its innocent color,
Until there were wild ba$tard cities cradled on the crescent moon,
And all the beloved dead in soft crypt-orchid
Beds beneath our longwinded arcing swoon.