Housewife Pie Poem by Robert Rorabeck

There are hills where houses live
That I have drawn with damp lights in the classes
Of high school,
When I wasn’t skipping and resonating in the waves;
And tomorrow I want to see Kelly;
I would like to give oral sex to butterflies, just to see her
New tattoos,
She gives so many children her bad news as she caravans:
She spots the dolphins in their wishy-washy gazeboes;
And she isn’t quite seventeen,
Just a sudden page in a beautiful broadside,
A ship that was there, I swear it, but then was lost:
A place where lost men disappear to what else I know not
What to compare it,
But to runaways and dead poets, and the geniuses I do not know
Listening with their one ears:
Pulling their horns all the way up to mountains while
The skies are wailing and giving their signs of un resigning loves;
The planets will have Pluto kindly put on its gloves,
And the philosophers and foxes go down to the
Rivers and there to sit and eat their dinners the very poisons
That cannot be proven,
And I will swing upon my rope swing over the bodies of
Both my vixen;
And the paper airplanes will fly,
And the paper house wives will offer us all slices of homemade
Housewife pie.