Brown Shoulders Of A Muse Poem by Robert Rorabeck

We'll share our own portions with
The forked tongue of a king—
He has come into our garden while we were
Kissing toads and lucky rabbits feet,
While out mother was doing the wash in
The grotto underneath the orange tree:
Where some kittens died,
Pressed like beautiful flowers against the
Stacks of rebar we pound closely into the
Ground at Christmas to sell Christmas trees—
And still, even now—the sun is
Burning—blue ship going down—won't it
Still be cerulean—it wasn't long ago
That we lost our identity—
Going away upon the brown shoulders of a muse—
As she travelled up the highways with her family—
Now the airplanes sound overhead like golden
Arrowheads shooting into the heavens—
Going to spear the other side of the world where
I am sure you will find my wife waiting for me.