Cops And Robbers And Cowboys And Indians Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Lights in the clockwork of Ferris Wheels,
Or in the Christmas trees over mausoleums; or in the things
That they turn on in kindergarten-
Soft cooling promises like waxing window shades to fall asleep under;
Something so beautiful, but so tranquil that it doesn’t
Have to be disproven,
Or woken up: it can just be a little girl forever, hibernating:
It can keep its thesis, and its plans to move anywhere:
From the graveyard to the trailer park,
Like marks in an exodus that the blades of the grass keep like
A metronome;
As her body folds over me, moaning until it beads in sweat:
And her soul becomes my soul: my alma,
And we swap names and spit:
We kick the ball around after work in a friendly yard, or in the warmth
Of a carport as it rains- and her husband calls her home,
Doing away with cops and robbers,
And cowboys and Indians.