Mistaken For Beautiful Children Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Marionettes mistaken for beautiful children—
Or vice versa—you know what I mean—
I am getting drunk as my mother is coming home:
I cannot remember when she first took
Me to the library
But no one else cares, so it is okay—
My father's horses do not care,
And my last and best muse does not read my poems,
So she will never find out,
How the airplanes came down and fought over
Brushing her hair—
But I continuing buying books she refuses to read—
And her children keep on getting taller and less
Educated—
And the moon is so far away it seems to have
Vanished—
Like the plans of the peeping tom in the bushes—
And yet the busses still do turn around,
Yellow and subtle and made to
Dance repeatedly—
The yellow, slender bodies of each cadaverous
Butterfly breathing and breathing,
As they hijack
And masturbate all of the flowers,
As I wonder if the store is still open,
And if my wife will ever go to sleep:
Will she ever go to sleep.