The Indoor Pages Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Now I a dancing while I feel my body’s flesh:
Like jam, held over- for the pursers lips: while,
At the windows,
All of the goldfish are trained indoors,
Just as I will have to go to school again tomorrow,
Waiting for what must happen in Paris:
Must I lose every possibility of
Everything,
To come down from the mountain again,
A new man:
As a child from my mother’s bosom, while these
Words scratch like chalk in a preordained maze
Which I jump through,
Licking my lips, the way the jungle licks conquistadors,
Thinking that all of this was better left
Though out to the casualties of Wednesdays: and it
Seems a poem to me-
It seems a weather caught between the fingerprints
While driving into a town along the frontera:
It seems as if a special place through my loneliness
As my bones
Turn gray and tend to wear my clothing- and this
Turns into a place where I am not here-
Housed in gilded allegory into another dream that
I am not sure I will have tomorrow,
While all of the cars station out, parked as if jewelry,
And the coyotes howl,
Their throats giving roses to the housewives of the world,
The frog princes dancing underneath them
And destroying the indoor pages of my softly lit story.