Mother's Milk Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Mother’s milk on the shelf of the
Convenient convenient store- lilac and
Lilac and goat tit,
And homeopath- and but oh, these cars don’t
Care- the heady chariots in the vast jungle
Metropolis,
Disney World mice I hope to return the respect of,
And use the conundrum of sunburned aphorisms;
It’s all some kind of backyard science,
The way her eyes look when she is unshelled and
Collapsed like a weary flag on her couch,
On her divan;
And the ceiling fan just does its job,
Wacking and chopping at the pesky angels and
Dust bunnies,
While the general of the little boy’s fingertips sends
Fighter jets into the gyring mother,
Because he loves her, and he hates her,
And he wishes to explore, while she is really passed
Out on the floor, like a two time areola ed puddle
Under the regularly harsh light of the television's muddle,
And the traffic goes back and forth,
Back and forth like chicken-minded angels
With very little reason or convenience to explore.