Comely Furnace Still Round With Grace Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The day slips good- I try and read Carl Hiaasen,
But I don’t have the knack for it anymore:
I play with dolls in little churches with thimble blue
Crèches,
And matchbox cars that have crashed belly-up through
The hedges. Lawrence’s tortoises go at in a way that
They make it clear they see no need to finish;
And she is upstage in her play, later on making out with
The same actors that I have seen in outer space-
On cherry wood floorboards covered by smoke curling
From slightly opened, pensive lips; and it seems as
If the world has gotten stuck. Perhaps it is,
And only the clouds move and the trailer parks ripple
As if trying to come out of a long standing social dream,
But otherwise the hands superimpose on domestic beers-
The baseball caps are dusty and have attracted the occasional
Fly. The baseball diamond is looking down the rows of
Softly sunk canals where the alligators freeze, their bark skin
Run over with jackets of tough ice; and now neither team will
Win; the finely outfitted boys just standing there, chewing
Their lips, bats in half-swing, runners in half-slide-
The brown eyes curiously unafraid as the balmy sun glides
Its pace, a comely furnace still round with grace.