The Ivy Leagues Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Now they go down into their brown beds wearing
Their nightgowns of gold colors,
Like foxes selling wine, good at getting grapes, and turning
Grannies into suckers:
And this is my neighborhood, harassing and tantalizing above
The downy plateaus and grottos where I finally slip down to
Sleep:
Like all of the roundest of stones down at the basest of mountains,
Crushing the corpulent lips of the most tourist of the wildflowers,
From which the ghostly footpaths circulate up from,
Giving their tramping motions toward the summits where the prayer
Flags of the ivy leagues flutter above the easiest of summits:
Above the water parks and the wine shops you snuggle in:
While I shoot off more and more, somehow conquering
But never getting down,
Like the divinity of an unobserving window trapped under the armpit
Of a motionless airplane:
A still life which captivates the nimbus, and keeps them around for
Years and eons, while the hurricanes churn like windmills,
While their housewives whip milk into cream, and that into butter;
And the quietest of butterflies lies like a statue on
Alma’s breast which the half lazy lion nuzzles up to and finally:
Oh so finally makes his hungry wish.