My Resting Body Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Now the city really burns in its pageantry of clouds
And I just thought of that and wrote it down,
Like words in a library underground of my skull, while the kids
Go skipping down their pubescent halls,
And I am still wishing that I could have given up its all:
The seat on the bus like the ticket inside a coward;
The pretty girls munching like narcissistic cannibals inside the cheeks
Of their own flesh;
And I wanting to get it right all of the time, and becoming a weaker
Creature all of the time because of the air-conditioning,
And the cars parked in rows like imperfect diamonds:
Like the teachers sitting at their desks, their minds and bodies wrecked
And on the doll,
So it should please me to say all of this, lounging in a stroll of my forests
Of slash and pitch-forks,
While the girls come up to me like curious fish, bodies shrunken into the
Fruit of their poles,
And the traffic goes by forever lushly,
Like these words spilled ever outwards from the drunken glasses of my
Quieted lips and my resting body.