Naked Rains Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Naked rains on Saturday:
We don’t work. We look at her,
Chartreuse or persimmon
Without skin, or sad on the
Linoleum. A pagan for every man,
How she hunts, and I can say no more,
But that she is there beneath stucco
Banisters, and the mirages of ceiling
Fans; On Sundays a pigskin
Pressed to her nipple, her eyes wide
Open her allure, the pebbles of costume
Jewelry swing against her chest,
Speckled and tugged as if by robins
From within an egg; so they moan,
And she hatches,
The catastrophes of touchdowns,
But I should say no more....