Crocodilian Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Crocodilian, I manhandle you,
Are my slave in a paper-bag. Moonshadows
When she crosses her legs,
The light turns green. Tulip bulbs in
Second grade, and after class dodge ball.
I saw my peers kissing in the shadows
Under the subtle lies of metallic quarries:
The engine classrooms made of tin,
Just like containers of refillable propane:
The school-yard something like a meadow,
Unclassified bubble-gum. We get together
In the gym and runaround in circles;
I pretend to stop and hold her eyes like
A religious vision, but I am getting old,
And she is leaping onward. This is little more
Than another sin I have yet to confess for,
But we should have a potluck downriver from
The graveyard,
And slip this girl into an albino canoe, and
Take her to hear the whooping crane, and slough
Through the mathematics of semiprecious reeds,
The cattails an instrument for vociferous reptiles,
And lay her there and brush her hair,
And hold our breath for a hundred counts,
And read to her what the heavens say above
The fading billboards and the zephyrs of indescribable
Traffic, which go along far beyond us on the
Concrete stilts, the megalithic steps of a tireless
Daydream repeating between the bookends of
Sunlit motioning.