The Promises Of A Blue Or Purple Rose Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Summering loneliness- you are here with the goldfish
And the housewives,
In a kind of house, underneath the airplanes while the
Turnip trucks overturn,
Spilling produce and dwarves, while the giants of our
Fairytales fart out clouds and
Nasty weathers in the sky-
And I just sat in a saddling greenness where only the
Katydids were disrobing,
And the pools are as innocuous as diamonds;
And looking down into the saturnine death of somnolent
Alligators,
Whose mascots seem to last for anon and anon
That there must be some avenue straight up to the heavens
Of the muses I was getting off to,
If they would only dropp down a long ribbon from their
Stranded airplanes,
Or casually relay one passing though to me-
The sky fibrillating like an infomercial filmed in the armpit
Of Michigan, but I was too lazy,
Enamored as I was like a waylaid knight in a poppy field
Blown by windmills,
And death grinning at me, sabertoothed but immobile,
Grinning with all of the promises of a blue or even purple rose.