The Ladles Of Featureless Joys Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Who can I tell the joys I’ve had at night
Waiting for the quixotic bedrooms of little houses
That are as good as mine
Where strange cats come brushing whiskers through
The scuppernongs;
And it is just as good as if I’d had a speed boat
Along the dress of reeds an October lake,
Where all the hidden promises whisk beneath the mallards
Cooing to the duck blinds;
And different degrees of hallucinations go like runaways
Across the fields of corn and strawberries,
With the deepest dreams being like commercial airliners
Booming like Olympic runners through the tallow
Baking in an airy wedding cake of forgetful gods
With the clouds being the hands of two lovers pinching and forming,
A dousing one another with the ladles of featureless joys.