Her Inevitable Afternoon Poem by Robert Rorabeck

You keep on giving us cadavers that seem
To tell the truth,
But there is not a goldfish on my windowsill:
And I no longer think of you
So dreamily a few hours away—
The playgrounds we enjoyed have rusted or
Been removed:
It was just a game we played next to the sea
While other, truer bicycles made love—
Stolen bicycles in the grottos of cave-bears
Beneath the sea—
Bicycles held in the Pieta of our strikingly
Beautiful aunts—
And bicycles still perched upon store shelves
Waiting to go home to the
Amphibian nests that surround suburbia,
To bejewel a crocodile's clutch,
Or to feel the cloy farts of an unfaithful
Housewife as she peddles away
After another mailman
Down some lane of her inevitable afternoon.