Unto The Flowers Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Mean as the pillboxes for the deceased
Army men:
I know they are just toys, but you didn’t have to grin;
As the sky made a mean sandwich out of its weathers of
Sin,
And pile drove over our sandy graves again: while the
Sea was just leaping, and leaping thirsty toothed
For they hand me downs of perpetual youth,
The proletariat hanging on the line, washing out the rust
With turpentine, the graffiti on their joints covering the
Rhyming gold of the burnished sea,
Like a flight attendant foaming at the mouth while she thought
Of me,
And the sky was just climbing up, and climbing up like a flight
Of very steep stairs,
Diademed at the summit by a bomb shell sex symbol that
Caught me unawares,
And spread her lips across my mouth and took away my
Spells,
And the fickle candlelight of my wishes, and blessed me with
This bottle whose slaving genie can grant me so many wishes;
Who by which every night I become a new man
According to the powers,
And flows with the daffodils who themselves account to other
Flowers;
And then it was just driving, and curling, and clutching to the
Overripe harvest, the hearts spilling their misused abuses
Over the centripetal marigolds whose season wasn’t even ours;
But we wished them the best,
And kissed them all the same, and then like visiting relatives,
We tipped our hats and turned away as we boarded that forever
Proverbial plane-
And smittened by our chances, we brushed off even our most
Charismatic of glances,
And shot that way that the body fields enjoying the golden corridors
Of the changing rooms of metamorphosis;
And we knew exactly this, what was hers was hers;
And what was hers was ours,
As the sun made its advances unto the flowers.