On The Amber Abutment Poem by Robert Rorabeck

You come off like a firework manhandling
A toothache:
Your mother was a dragon I could never slay:
You lay in green meadows openly praying and fiddling
Your legs:
Moving so fast as a hummingbird, you pass over all the
Overpasses:
Your father was the first green copper cannon to ever
Enter America:
Now he sells rime salt and popcorn:
His eyes are the very same eyes that were once thought
To be aqueducts on mars:
You neck is a crystal column no Hollywood movie could
Accurately describe;
And yet you have no daughter: Or maybe you have just
One daughter born in the jungles
Of Columbia, depending on who you are for me tonight:
And I have $207,000 dollars and one pair of shoes
Without holes;
And I think of you continually: maybe today I have given
You a flower,
A pink gladiola, though I would like to name every
Article of your paradise: every bend of your auburn body should
Be charted by me, ever swiftly perfumed dime,
If you would only lay still for awhile or two for me, maybe
In the house I’ll buy, maybe tonight or tomorrow
If you have a daughter who I have never seen, if your mother
Named you Diana
Then I have already struck out for you and am even now
Just as upset as a wolf soaked to the bone on the amber abutment
That looks far out across the sea of your perfect games.