Beaten In The Sun Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Perfections that are not there,
Hunting through the backyards of
High school girls
Metamorphosed into housewives
Who stay at home and drink all day
Beached upon the suburb’s roads,
The twinkling tar beneath the
Spinning wheels,
Prick your fingers on the
Quarter acre field, the tracks of
Land- Her eyes say it all,
The forgotten avenues of
The young jogging legs-
The embryos still within them,
Hibernating like bumblebees
In the rosy caves of seashells on
The brink,
Their lips part now,
But they only subtract, take away,
They cannot feel what they say-
I’d like to think there was a time
When they could,
Naked in the storms off the eastern
Seas,
As I stepped nearer out from
The pines and the junked cars
Shouting,
But this is a misrepresentation in
The stringing lights from day to day-
I have always been too far away
From the girls in their backyards,
Putting the glasses to their lips-
Their eyes glaze, until they go to
Bed and wake up with their few men,
So I remain in the burry dunes
Beaten in the sun.