Your Very First Boyfriends Poem by Robert Rorabeck

In their gardens was this pledge,
That they were having sex and beating chords;
Just as the pitcher on his mound
Was wound up to throw,
And the jackrabbit had buried his long ankles all deep
Into snow;
And wound down, like an accordion in drag:
And the sky fell over and got a good view of her scars
With the exploded cars in their canyons,
And the venison in its gunny sacks: the mountains looked
Like sad teenagers, but I
Take that back; and it was okay to report that this
Didn’t really happen to me:
I was just a raconteur’s heart beating its bicycles into the
Sea,
While all of the flashy broads had already swam away,
Folded into the paper airplanes,
Or tossed unceremoniously into the golden hay:
As all of the latch key children were looking up and drown into
Their out of state graves,
As all of their colleges were burning up to cinders,
Just as your very first boyfriends were just learning how to shave.