Pollinations Of Angels Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I get the feeling someone has stolen the water
From the bucket filled up hidden in the ruddy hibiscus
Where my childhood played in afternoon,
Where I saw her needled and meek saying nothing
In the aloe, but looking perfect, as the storm clouds
Built like hungry stomachs and dissatisfied engines
High above the cutlery of waves....
Now the cement is dried and we’ve forgotten to write
Our names, or something clever in Latin,
As the students take the safe rivers from muted classroom
To silvery car bought but not yet paid for by the busy
Hours of their parents, the emulations of their curling studies;
As I eat lasagna and type out on my coverless bed,
Watching the games the clouds play as they build up towards
The purplish monsoons, giving promises like flirtatious lovers,
I send my own messages out like microscopic doves from
The rafters of Arizona, pretending that I was once beautiful,
And my ego un-bruised and yet receptive to the gifts
Of strange young girls giggling like the pollinations of angels,
Heard as if in a memoir floating out the whitish windows
Floating symphonic well above my head.