The Imperfections Of Their Favorite Things Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Juvenile doves enjoying the architectures
Of their jaundiced neighborhoods:
They don’t even believe the air will support them,
But they start off:
They fly like rats over the cleavage of neighborhoods
While the tigers smoke through rings,
Picking the right angles of their dungeons,
Webbed in the elbows of
The Precambrian subculture- They will fly forever
These brilliant things with burning
Tattoos: they seem to
Be catching the albatross like roses, as in their
Feral natures, they think up the names of
Their muse
And in the rains that cannot douse their burning
Gasoline,
They leap forever, resembling the imperfections
Of their favorite things.