The Graveyard Of Man's Toys Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I heard the noise of giving-birth today,
Deep in the truculent woodworks of the world.
This began with passion’s coy whispering
And the coming together of two bodies in
The brush near the speaking fire
Where the griot told stories of everthing’s beginning.
“This is how it began, ” he began,
And the man and woman joined in the woods today.
Under the shallow sway of the Australian pines,
Like some kind of sea....
In a graveyard of ancient red cars
Filled with pornography. Their bodies vibrated
With a passionate hum,
The pollen and the bee in the river of life,
Two fish in the stream, a boy and a girl
Rehearsing for their roles as mother and
Father, their lips expelling a Broadway musical.
On the other side of the wall,
Gathering scattered seeds, I pretended not to
Hear my mother and father in their bedroom,
The lapping waves two bodies break-
With my eyes I could not peer through this,
The Cerberus bedding a hole in the earth,
The invitation of flesh drawing blood to orifice,
The extension of iris, the sacred thing
Spied through the wall’s loose stones
In the graveyard of man’s toys.
The months of copulation to produce a son,
The fragile vessel budded in the rust,
The sounds that come painfully jovial
Conjoined with such miracles,
Sleeping gardeners attending the bedroom,
Then lusty janitors cleaning up with lips and tongue.
I spied through a hole in wall
All these things that were done, the griot tells,
As their sounds leapt over and away,
Panting, leaving echoes to drip in my silence.