The Time To Recognize Your Glorious Senses Poem by Robert Rorabeck

It is sad that she loves her husband,
The only thing who is her light, and checkmates her
King;
And the city rides beneath them, and there is
Plenty of empty parking,
Like burnished crèches to place their daughter in,
Underneath the eye lashes of the moon and its
Silver satellites airplanes like tree frogs leaping;
And it hurts to know that she has all of this,
The simple minded bliss of a tea party,
Has Alice;
And the wind wakes up all of a sudden and curls around
Her like a snake who is a kitten;
And the light peels all the way down in a cornucopia
Of naked music:
Like it does for holidays and boys who can fly who
Are always played by girls.
She doesn’t know what I should be now- That I am one of
Them, that I am a real boy, beautifully contaminated:
Sharon,
I have earned my wings, but they are wet with the oils you
Spilled laughing into the bastion of tubs,
The ambergris of planets you choked under water, under
Stream that you love as deep as your husband
Who knows as little as love as the element of fighter pilots
Moving so slick over the jungle that they can’t even stop
For a moment to fathom the unmolested beauty
Where the natives live,
Where the orange flowers grow as if from the lips of
Green-horned skyscrapers;
And now my lips smell like gasoline, but I am still the only
One who can take the time to recognize your glorious senses.