Moving The Wrong Way Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Everyone’s the prisoner of a mad king,
I suppose:
Picking their noses,
Some more homely, hopscotching shadows-
I’ll steal out in the roses,
Lay down in some narcoleptic poses,
Neverminding the day gone traffic: It is gone,
As your legs and curly limbs are gone-
Wish they had followed the daubed hatchlings
Down to the sea, and scattered away though
Most were eaten by bilious lips
Dining in clouds and sunshine-
Now most of us gone asleep under the rusting
Eaves, the air-condition droning:
No sweet young dreams now, just schemes of
Money - but oh how I would have liked to
Have learned how to unfasten you bra,
And then go out into streams of sunlight,
Both of us running.