The Beast That Gives Them Milk Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Words bloom imperfectly like would be young lovers
Now old and gray:
Words clipped like out of control song birds, like designer airliners
In a sumptuous soirée with the rest of the other singing birds
Enmeshed in the rock garden with the butterflies and
The Spanish rainbows,
Tied up in ribbons of atheistic stone:
I am doing this all right now like a stewardess serving a drink
To the right place, because it is my job and because I am very hungry
And I like what I am doing;
It is as if I could be slaying bearded dragons, but instead I stay my
Hand because I want them to live,
Because I am only a mailman and I know their actual worth:
They are absolute beauty; and I would rather drink my barrels of rum
That have come skipping down to the valley;
And paint a scene, allowing the lesser heroes to roe with them in
The muggy dirt:
Eating together and making love and then regurgitating into airbags,
Purely sickened by the realization of what they’d been up to:
Heroic men and their monsters,
Hoping that their offspring would bring about some new realization on
Electricity, but no such thing ever even close to happening,
Just the detritus of dulled newer cars and faux diamond rings;
And children, children, and boatloads of children circulating and
Caracoling,
Like rabbits in the rock garden, like areolas out in the sea, not realizing
The beasts that gives them milk also ate their heroes’ seed.