Mostly Better Paradise Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Girls come in and out of the world
And their cars. Rain is forecasted for this evening:
The tent breathes like an angelic lung spread across
This field of green the cops and robbers leap across.
I cannot escape from my scars, or the dreams I
Have of my dog far away: but I have no more cares,
And little hopes like a toy parade a little boy proceeds
With his fingers across the car port: some book is
Open at his side, like a gun,
Or a tomahawk of an Indian war chief in brightly
Feathered dress; a water drum of pennies
Is overturned and Lincoln is busted and zink:
For Christmas three saints will count all their money and
Their cures and then stand as still and still as plastic
Yard ornaments while the sprinklers French kiss their
Bodies in very clean mastication, the bucolic reservoirs
Which spread like the five and dime women once they
Leave their places of rest, and fan out over this fair city,
Like a chain-smoking chorus line,
Led by their bee-stung busts and their puckered lips into
a mostly better paradise.