The Waves Messing Around Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The bottle seems to disappear into the lips of
Lonely flowers
And even makes me think to figure that I am doing good
Work,
Even while this ladder leads up to nowhere,
Or just high enough to scratch at planes’ bellies;
And if we sold fruit up here imagine all of the nose bleeds:
Imagine the theatre and the fans;
Or the places we could go alone to be floating on banks,
To figure ourselves out and really in love:
To smell the scents of the game, or to just lie on our stomachs
And watch all the waves messing around.