Hijacked Bosoms Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I have blood baked in an oven,
And flowers cooked on the stove,
Salted and
Made runny for your lips
Down to your legs:
And your belly-button is a glacial lake
Just beneath the bosom
Where your unabashed child suckles
Through bike rides
And sunsets:
Like two milkshakes riding high
And unbraziered,
Like stewardesses done with leaping shift:
I would like to smooch and suckle
Just one or both
If I pay my toll,
If they are unoccupied:
I would return them to their
Rightful place and owner,
Given enough time:
I would put them back, or I would reveal them
As communal property
And take them into box cars with me and nourish
Upon them all throughout them Midwest,
Going no place in particular,
Skipping trains,
Hibernating like a Buddhist bumblebee on your
Hijacked bosoms.