In Which No One Is Ever, Ever Home Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Pretty words rhyme like pretty girls making love,
Lactating in a sorority of a self-picking- picking time:
The instruments of a nubile flesh look best
Juxtaposed next to the iridescent graveyard:
The youth of milk and ladles pouring over grandmother’s bones;
And I don’t really know the characters of these species;
I am just familiar with the carports of these grottos, of the goldfish
In his loam,
And of a house in which no one is ever, ever home.