My Muse And Silver Airplanes Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Feelings in the falseness of these
Bodies fills up a room,
Giving us the same diction as her elbows
And putting us at angles
To us all:
When outside, where the housewives
Are basking like wet paint,
What should we find in glades of their retinue:
The trophies of their day long obsessions,
Their yard men happy to please them,
Or the firecrackers of truants:
Or my fingers spread in yours, the higher hand
Of a card game,
The easy cradle for my birds- off in the soft
Woods,
Speaking different tongues- silent caresses
In the sunshine or her cousin rains-
Opulence- and blades of grass-
My muse and silver airplanes.