Then For Dinnner Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Housewives like naves,
Like low strung truants sleeping in their backyards
Of days,
Strung out and as drooling as mastiffs on the pretty
Easement,
Until they become cleated with the neat patterns of
Floritam:
Which is the greenness I brought for them to rest like
Easter and with bottles of wine
Undouse themselves and remember the sun
That rose like a clementine from
The gardens of am:
How it crackles like an artist on her bankrupt jaw:
Her eyes as open as transoms that are sure that they always
Saw such a thing that rises over her sprinklers
And her little garden every day;
There quite naked she has become the better accoutrement
To her uncounterable landscaping;
And she is purer than the liquid body of the grass snakes that
Encounter her like a pink ribbon high in
Their greenly firebreaks,
And she yawns and quivers through the freckles of
Fire cracken and hibiscus:
The bougainvillea that ride up the side of her house like fish
Net stockings;
And the flotsam jungle of clouds that ride over her bared shoulders
And make her nuptials shiver even before the bicycles come
Breaking home to wake her up for afternoon and then for dinner.