Their Cats In Perfect Time Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Getting sick and sitting on my globular throne,
Watching all the rock-stars prancing with their Dorothy’s
To their red riding homes;
And the sky is a brick arcade, you’ve seen it before;
They sky is a loom on fire, and it is so wide
All the airplanes pirouette,
Pirouette, like tin man body builders for their
Luscious Pegasus;
And I am reminded of a house that isn’t real,
A home in horny ivory, a chimney of moist, slow smoke;
A perfect man inside, perfectly grayed:
A man such as I should be if I could have followed Virgil
All the way further into the dank sweet paths of
His underwater spheres, and to have seen all the luminosities
He would have shown me-
To seen his eyes as I would have seen mine to be;
And that perfect love in low bodiced rood, driving in cars
That sing,
And children who go to bed on time; and all of us slumbering
Quite a few feet above the mowed earth,
While the clocks keep their cats in perfect time.