The End Of The Page Poem by Robert Rorabeck

They seem to be calling me home:
And isn't it astonishing that this is what they do,
To make love like
Tigers face to face underneath the fences and the
Ferris Wheels
While my blood permutated with rum until
I am a foe of baseball
Cast aside underneath the swing sets the other
Ways busied by the makings of love:
This, end to end, is my own estuary—
Mouthed my the tadpoles who haven't yet
Dreamed of stewardesses: this is what it means to
Her, coming up, dancing in the kindergarten
Mouths of the fire—growing like a weed
Or her own instrument: maybe she will remember
Nothing, or
Maybe she will have to learn to kiss so
Many mouths just to make it to the end of the page.