In The Theatres Of The South Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Here is the joy that makes no sound,
The pleasure given to a lover
With duck tape over her mouth-
The blindfolded surprise led down
To the river where
The procrustean preacher is
Figuring out how to baptize
His flock where there is only desert
For miles around-
After school, the fox is in the chicken coop,
The cops are on holiday,
The dogs are asleep under the house,
And there is nothing left to do
As the rattlesnakes slither by,
But to pack your few things and
Head for the war they are
Performing in the theatres of the south.
Where after the silence,
Great men decorate the earth
Before they are found, while back up North
Their wives and their lovers,
After the fireworks and parades,
In the humid bedroom where they pray,
Lips cut upon missing letters,
Carefully perform the joy without a sound.