The Bed Of A Second Story Ballroom Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Up in the sky of elbows
And cracked plates- of almost anyways-
Looking up, paper folded from a paper cut:
Soft words spoken to an inoffensive wound:
Look up, there seems to be stewardesses up there
Circulated by the ceiling fans and floating through the room:
Busty, hyperventilating ghosts,
Titillating the pop corned gloom,
So you don’t have to go anywhere to believe-
Here is the chattel of the day slung gloom; and they sing
Your name, and blossom;
And kiss your armpits, as they swing upwards, smoky perfumed:
And they love you, laughing, winged;
And the words that you love to pearl them: swimming,
Resplendent- echoes the soft loneliness:
While the pets sleep in the sleeping grass, and your parents
Make love above your very own goddesses,
In the heavens which birthed you- up the carpeted steps
And in the bed of a second story ballroom.