Chelsea Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The uncouth rhymes of
consciousness live in
the harem of the noun.
In kindergarten
you learn the alphabet;
you put dirt in your mouth.
Half asleep,
pull up strands of yellow
and orange carpet,
pretending you love her,
singing the song of the south;
After school,
In a house above ground,
mother and father are not
speaking.
Language is sound.
The white hound kills
a clutch of rabbits
in the rock garden
God strolls around.
As mother dresses you in
a grey suit for Easter,
Death keeps a hole
in the ground.