Colors Never Known By Our Previous Families Poem by Robert Rorabeck

These are the gentle scribbles of my childcare
While I hear new cars,
And I don’t want to go to New Mexico and lose my job
Fornicating over you,
A-, just to sell fireworks for America, which isn’t even your
Country;
But early in the morning I wished that you heard my words like
Going out barefooted in the dew to pick strawberries
And sell lies,
Because I have been busy articulating for you, because
I want to attend my tongue to your sweet rind again:
I want to take you out to eat near the sea, underneath all of the noises
Of the flags and the airplanes,
And then I just want to lay you down in bed and kiss you everywhere
That doesn’t count until you can hardly stand it,
And then I want to make a bright gallery of you that cannot be
Turned off:
I want you moaning symphonies of special elements and light parades:
Then it would be our amusement filled with horny caracoles and new
Colors never known by our previous families,
And I would keep you so light in your fancies, that you could
Never come down without apologizing and getting off on me.