Its Fallen Princess Poem by Robert Rorabeck

At home again, called out from seashells,
From the illusions of our workaday world, the doll I
Paint in my poems,
And position in my two bedrooms: the both of us
Alone on Holidays of Tuesdays,
Your brown skin makes love to a baseball ghost
In the twilight of voiceless lions,
So I am the crippled king of beasts, and you like it
When I pull your hair,
Your eyes as dark as the confections of torture,
Your sweet body tumbling and ecstatic, at times
A Ferris Wheel,
At times a Roller Coaster, sweating in the singularity of
My tourism,
But always the park gets over itself; the trees, disrobing,
Weep like newborns,
And I like a forest in a thunderstorm, as you remember
Your daughter, and where you left your keys
And your car outside, the means to escape a midway
Who has given you all of its prizes,
And declared you its fallen princess.