The Little Picassos Poem by Robert Rorabeck

When you are cleaned then look into my eyes,
And every part of your body which needs not hair,
Has not;
And you are wavering like a liquorish store,
Red hots, and bicycles trying to recreate their
Own sundogs beneath the sun on the concrete-
Your body pressed like a flower into the book
Of my body;
And all the alarms ringing,
The church bell ringing- the rivers like freckle-
Faced truants stopping to listen;
It is miraculous and the birds are singing.
Your body is like marble engrafted into my
Papier-mâché, and they are letting the little Picassos
Out from art class,
Maybe the world is taking on it any of the forms
That we just might be choosing.