Jarrett, Or The Stewardess's Son Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I’ll never christen the sun where he can be
More successful:
I don’t like men like him that much,
Outdoors or in the post-office,
Always whiskered and driving
A chariot,
Parlaying to girls with guns,
Who are good shots and scientists,
And they lay down in the good numbers of
Their city fields and listen to easy listening or
Pops,
And I can’t go to sleep when they are doing this
To me: with all of his lights out on her bare-bosom,
Unifying her colors, taking her bouquets further
Away from the grave, smiling because he knows
Who is going to get to drive her home,
Up and down her elevators, publishing young,
Overseeing her clean wrists,
Kissing them with all that he’s done,
Hanging his blazing mobile over all of her suckling
Young.