Heather? Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Do you give me the chance to glance at stars-
I used to lay on my back in the sweet suburban dunes and
Affect such scars,
While the houses moaned and creaked like an armada
Of sailing wax ships, captained by mothers with
Their own tennis courts and hand blown crystal:
Far out at sea the lions would roar, the fish would starve,
And I couldn’t see where I was going,
But anyway it bloomed somehow, and I gave my stains
To the green rug like a Victorian garden,
Plastic army men died upon, Indians were defeated while
Paper airplanes flew above and got stuck on the ceiling fans:
Their captains came over the intercom and said,
Everything was going to be so fine, and the roses stuck their
Heads out from the crack in the drywall; it smelled like turpentine.
Grandmothers came by concrete rivers,
And their husbands with paper snowflakes. A Catholic girl
Kissed my liver, and then threw it across the canal to see which
Way it would break. Now the sky is overcast and I am
Expecting the commonly uncertain weather;
Today is my birthday, thirty some years- I can’t remember;
But if I had a wife, I’d name her Heather, and salute her every
Morning. Her legs would be a good reason for any old revolution,
And I’d set them as gently as kittens outside for the morning,
For the sun to play upon them, to weep and drive;
And I’d wind her up and set her out to get groceries, tuna fish
And glass cleaner and a box of matches so we wouldn’t
Have to starve.