Bathing In Their Throats Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Said something beautiful to the windmill
That lost its place
In the hapless orchestra disorganized upon
The hillside overlooking the sea-
Like place for you in my heart,
In a miniskirt and knocking on my door:
Seances of broken love
And noses-
While out in the coppering yards,
The ants continue to mound for their
Queen, whoever she is,
And the monkeys play baseball into the
Sunsets of Halloweens,
Where the witches fly, but jealous of
The stewardesses,
And the frogs bathing in their throats,
Washing their armpits illusively,
And still swearing one day they to be princes.