The Softest Estuaries Poem by Robert Rorabeck

My old muses live here—
Holy grounds of junked cars and pornographies that
Have already bloomed and wilted:
And I don't want to live here
While I am alone: the dragon cursing and
Getting up for fornications in which he spits
His fires to the naked girls like
Hamburgers and hot dogs underneath the sun:
And it is not a pretty art,
But it gets the jobs done—Ferris wheels under the minds
Of my grandmother's grave
All throughout all of these altruistic pornographies
Where little girls are just born
To turn into werewolves pushed against the seven
Seas—and made to do math in classes
Of high school—where the bands practice next
To the yawning alligators where so many
Indians have lived only to appear again: brighter,
And phosphorescent—as if all of the word
Was a cavern where the housewives lived
And fought off the wolves of young boys and
Young men who just wanted them to be their muses
And brought to them fruit baskets and carried to
Them apples pierces with from their venomless
Fangs—with the most hungry expressions in their eyes,
As they carried themselves over the softest estuaries
Of the minnows,
But otherwise kept to themselves all of the time.