In The Chinese Theatres Poem by Robert Rorabeck

In the zoo on Sundays,
I try not to think—speckled in the shade,
I drink in the sun—
Thinking of nothing is the best thing,
Failures put on hold,
Swans in the man made river
Look beautiful—
All of these captivated animals intermingling
With the housewives—
Born to shoplift from their own shadows—
I am drinking tequila I won from a locker
For a hundred and seventy five dollars—
Echoes brandished in the sheathes and
Armpits that hang lower to the
Light,
Like brandy licked by the tongue of a very
Bold serpent:
Soon, tranquilized, I will fall to sleep—
Once again without any hope
Outside of the cabin where the warm people
Hibernate—
Special, with bold privileges in their cannons,
Wanting to come down but striking no
Compromises with their ever young helliums—
And warn out this way
While cradling their first born children—
And loving in the day-gloom ballrooms
Of the tangled ribbons of glassblown rivers—
Without the daylight or the moon,
Going down the passageways,
Drinking in the Chinese theatres of their misplaced
Atmospheres.