Putty In Another Man's Clay Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Back into the park of daggers,
Beaten up by customers of an unashamed
Sun,
Failures to look beautiful mean no pollen,
No reciprocation with her better joints,
The useless water fountains the bees lay
Sprawled around- all turned out
And truncated into adobe moles:
She would say to me I say to the thoughts of
Children:
Your mother would have a park and there
Would be tender nudges,
If my flesh was perfect like walking into the
Air-conditioning of a bank and doing
Your business all with smiles:
I guess instead I will have to hold up the place,
And pack my truck halfway through a
High school day,
Because fences are so easily bounded when
You have the soul of a pointer,
And there is no use, no correct bouquet,
When her dreams and softy bicycles are
Already putty in another man’s clay.