Campfire Tale Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Cars are running on fingers of diamonds and loose change.
The woods are humming a catchphrase you don’t know.
Down the easement on the left,
The forest-blue barge is taking a young Adam to a new affair;
He is out on the deck filling his pockets with sunlight
And the skim of water lilies-
Without long hair, you are less attractive than you used to was,
And the pugilists have made you lose the fight,
Evidenced in the dark mask around the rim of your gaze;
She has taken the yacht of his sleeve and doesn’t care.
The petty thieves purloin the embarkation of the naive heart.
They are in there now sowing the city as white as Damascus;
This road is the downward vein attributing to the sad populations,
Where pricking corn grows like ruddy children around the hem of pines,
And the sky whistles the silky knives, the silverware which pullulate
Like throbbing moths pulsating from the yellowjacket’s joyful barb.