Not So Very Loud Poem by Robert Rorabeck

One thousand gypsum fairytales
Just trying to keep my tailfins
Warm,
Pretending to be another
Metamorphosis
A thousand and ten miles away from
Home—
And when it gets cloudy, we sell
Christmas trees:
Just me and my wife,
And the dwarf—
And my grandfather, why,
He is dead,
But fully satisfied now that he has
His anatomical request—
And in the morning floods
And toy boats
With vaginas—
And my hands typing away in the
Hedgerows beneath a cloud—
While a thousand girls get off to
Themselves—
Inside the theatres of the hurricanes
That are trying themselves to be
Not so very loud.