Littlest Of The Talented Children Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Hat tricks burn the air over the erstwhile celebration;
Where the little boys are sleeping with blotchy coats,
The bouquets of fluidic clitorises of red hibiscus,
Reveal the deep quieted organs beneath the ripped denim;

This is all that was had to say, said the king touching down,
And surveying the destroyed hymen of the disentangled relationship:
His children were tangled like topaz nettles,
The emotionless lovers of a mutilated culture;
Twins who once shared a constellation,
Where the hares nuzzled in a warm clutch,
Now this the spilled inducement of overeager wasps,
Who have swollen the garden’s neck with their forthrightness....

Beneath the few remaining trees, a pitiful swath of anemic glade,
The poets are giving up and going indoors;
Like premenstrual geniuses, they are too soon perturbed
By her absence of the gesture of her eyes upon them;
They are contemplating imports and the amputations of
Their right leg, as they hang the impotently soaked broadsides on the
Pontificating coat rack;

Soon they will be sitting on cushions and out of it,
And cannot be blamed if she cuts her wrist at the end of the rhyme,
Their eyes sharing this empirical wall which we can all see:
The certainty of callous hands on indifferent wood,
The craftsman’s sons returned home from the battle which
Killed all hope of the littlest of the talented children.