In The Open Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I have a book published,
And your dreams are stupid;
But your legs are very sexy:
And that is why you have all of your children:
Scissoring in the sky,
Swim meet of your meat:
Your eyes are like the sky: your meat is their
Meat;
And I don’t have to explain why: I’ll eat my
Mother’s chocolate: I’ll go outside and get dizzy,
And I wont even look at the one or two cars
That drive by, because my old neighborhood is
So empty; and my crown is rusting- Exhumed
From the time capsule with the paper airplanes
And plastic Indians;
I am still this quieting land’s chief, and I know
How to describe:
I know how to pull you out of class and press you
Proportionately against the lockers, and hold your
Eyes on into crepuscule: after the mailmen have made
Their rounds, and the cats are coming out,
And the housewives are going down;
And I still hold your eyes and press your buttons
To your thighs,
Even if you aren’t here- even if you are home,
I can still catch you briefly out in the open of your skies.