Celibacy Of Housewives Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Celibacy like a bubble bath in the sky,
Effervescing these springs of invisible rooms
Where no one pays,
But does his time look up at ceiling fans,
Predicting disasters purposefully,
Inventing the light bulb; and if I could love my
Mother, I bet I could; I bet I could be asleep
In five minutes and have the stewardess’
Uniform ablaze in a controlled burn;
And all the way down to the hemisphere, nothing
But thigh, a pink ribbon of outer space ending
In toes that splashed jelly-fish,
Gar, and cheap plastic minnows; and for the houses
Asleep in their cost, the women who live in them
As curried as palominos, like poets fortunately
Lost, bullet-ripped to feed the olive roots,
The peaceful truancies of curved and dangerous
Routes; Or, to carry on with this line of tinkering,
In hurricane season housewives bickering,
Fully busted in blouses cut short, thighs un bemused
By anything unfit for a tennis court; and their
Eyes upon my wicked holidays, I’ll sell them pumpkins,
I’m make some bread, and hang them like trophies,
Or stockings premature for Christmas,
In my private self-satisfied library, well-fed.