On Their Soft Brown Skin Poem by Robert Rorabeck

It seems real that my joy is drunken:
My heart burns like peeling glass, the dogs run underneath
The overpasses and after class:
The cars motors purr, stamped by housewives, swaying in
The caesuras of their dreams,
Shopping, bearing the negligee that is hardly even there,
Like the spit of rainbows on her brown skin,
As her children come back home from school again;
And I wonder how her soft brown kisses feel on their
Soft brown skin.