Dancing In Their Weekend Proms Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Fridays all the pretty swans must be out swinging-
And even the clouds are well instrumental,
Going cork-bellied over teal tennis courts;
And the lawyers are perambulating, the best of them in
Short tennis skirts- kneed divine;
And I can walk out of my mind, like a mollusk tipping his
Hat over now that all the birds have
Gone deeper into the south, roosted into
Cemeteries and rusty centerfolds,
Now that all the Monarch Butterflies are whistling strangely
Transsexual in the butterscotch cocoons:
I can stroll hunky-dory out between all the balmy sidewalks,
Lighting off my sticks of spitting tinsel,
And the housewives won’t even mind, because
They’ll be too busy entertaining- and only their most insincere
Daughters will find me out,
Call me out on the swings which arc almost all the way out
Of the neighborhood:
They kick start, and they can almost jump over the drooling
Jaws of alligators,
The drunk procrastinating Spaniards out on their pool floats
Taking depth soundings and muggy green temperatures:
And I can whisper or scream that I love her,
And the air plants will stick out their bristled tongues- and some insects
Will vibrate in their armpits; and even my scars will seem to
Glow industrious like mica;
And I will realize that I am only a cartoon with four fingers,
And my heart is a rubber turkey- and the girl I love the motivation
For a really miserable time;
But I wont abash my silhouette, and I’ll finish what I’ve
Been smoking with my tender meat hooks; I’ll humor the black sheep,
The girl in her ridiculously lonely séance and maybe we’ll
Even steal a car and make it all the way down to where the
Sea is made up of horded tinfoil from the spinsters of
The greatest generation,
And we’ll just lie on our backs and let DH Lawrence make up
Better rhymes over the ochre-sexed tortoises;
And watch the cloud creatures dipping their proboscises and whatnot
Into the daffodils of the sea’s whatnot,
And pretend to have a good time and be in love,
While everyone else is dancing corked in their weekend proms,
Cocooned there on the shores of the city’s ice-moon,
Un admittedly transsexual and horded around the living room’s
Football game with chips and guacamole in a
Disassociative fugue.