Feral Wanderings Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The wet body of blushing fountains,
Fieldtrips the night:
A swing-set in kindergarten’s backyard:
You say you love her,
But the teacher thinks the tulips are for her:
When you travel,
You eat your mother’s chicken soup:
It is not good, because she doesn’t know you,
And you get sick:
She knows your sisters better,
But there is still the girl you love-
Sleeping on the rug next to you,
As you inch toward the paltry theft:
Soon you will be discovered,
As they line you up for the end of class....
Outside, the sky is a blue cabbage
Darkening off the sea, the thoughts
Of deeper men you don’t yet fathom....
But even then you knew where she lived,
And your parents took you past her every day.
Then you could go to the woods
And be with your dogs,
As the rattlesnakes patterned the sleepy
Motes of sunlight,
The fractured rooms of slash pines,
Who still hold no thoughts for you
Amidst those feral wanderings....