Of Baseball Players And Really Lucky Genies Poem by Robert Rorabeck

It hurts to look myself in the eye
Of gray eyed mirrors;
Hurts to come again on valentines while
You’ve been playing baseball.
And my mother is washing herself again,
Noisily while the higher basins
Are full of wild flowers and unfortunate
Yardarms:
That I have made you part of the happenstance of my
Mismatched collected;
And, no, I cant even smell: and I am sure your
Sh&t stinks:
You will never be a stewardess but at least you might
Yet still save some lives:
Your hair is as auburn as an apiary of bumble bee
Hives;
And now isn’t the sky so low over the apple orchards,
Or the uncanny species of both wisdom and evil,
Body so plumped as to be its own kind of
Holiday gone out into the night unafraid,
Sure to make it to grandmothers and get laid by wolves
And hairy men,
By bestiaries of baseball players and really lucky genies.