The Crepescule Of A Well Caught Picking Time Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Like a hypnotized chicken, you never had a chance;
Because you may have come from old Mexico, but I escaped with
My dogs from
Saint Louis, and I have read everything that
Mark Twain has ever published, so I know about Satan;
And you may be sleeping with your bad man again,
But tomorrow I will buy you breakfast,
And the sun will shine and come down fine across the taxidermies of
My body and my mind;
As I will lay out for you like the hypnotizing meats of a trap,
Without any stanzas or shoes on my feet:
And my unrecognized children will sing irrefutable songs to you
From the bellies of their mind,
And they will pick and pocket the illustrious fruits of those
Hibernating minerals for you,
Alma; and they will swear out the custody of drunken Indians for
You, and pop pop rockets from their lips,
And ride bicycles like a rodeo of witchcraft around your house
While you sleep,
Which will make you children dizzy like tourists in the Disney
World’s sublime, until you finally come out naked and
With your hands up to succumb to me,
Like a luscious harvest, or the ball of a victorious game, coming
Down into the crepuscule of a well caught picking time.