Like A Makebelieve Theatre Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Without looking up the gold of sheriffs,
This is the way that sometimes the goldfish have to survive
On Tuesdays,
Open mouthed, while the housewives’ Mexican cleaning ladies
Are cleaning all of the edges of the house,
While I have had at you and your mouth in all for corners;
It is a game,
As an orange is orange, I love you the same:
Without any stanzas, my broken words trample in, breathing on the
Neck of your body like the delta of a river:
So brown and wild and pure,
As above us the sun is so pure; and beneath us all the depths of the
Seas and the buried men;
While on Tuesdays I can compare your beauty to the sea,
Alma: On Tuesdays, driving in a car,
Just as so many mammals now do:
Pressing my foot past Palm Beach, I can show you the shimmering
Azure, and say that is exactly you;
And then to the heavens, the aspens prey: they line up like sisters
In a queue to see Elvis, to sing of the joy of sisterly things,
Just as I know that you have your own private joys in the boudoirs
Of your heart;
And of such private joys I should never sing: but to you, out in the open,
Your pretty organs out to breathe, like something I somehow
Won at the workplace of a fair: I open my heart up like
A makebelieve theatre; and sing.