That Very Afternoon Poem by Robert Rorabeck

How strange the reanimated legionaries must
Be going as they fell up into your Pleiades
Which aren’t even real constellations,
Just sisterhoods somewhere in the hallucinations of
The jungle-
Or like not dressing out for gym,
And getting to stare quite contentedly at her jiggling,
And not having to do anything about it:
And this sun is a constant good sport,
And we drink vodka before class and quack farts
Right alongside the toads in the premeditated algebra
Of the sweet young campus’ landscaping.
Right before us the sky is like the pink rose I passed
Over to give her for the
Red, red roses, to hear her mouthing off and laughing
With her friends,
And then having to watch her up on the lacquered stage
Kissing the leading man,
But never believing it was real, absolutely;
And then all of the days receding into the migrations of
Wolverines and school buses,
The mailboxes opening up clear throated at our cul-de-sacs
And turn abouts, coming homes into the
Laps of middle-class huckstery, the sugar-cone estuaries
I’m sure you know about:
Watching Jordan’s sister Abigail digress into her nudity
Beside the best of all pools,
And the clouds cottoning to their own pace,
Having now reminiscence for who I might love that
Very afternoon.