Pink Lemonade Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Pink Lemonade



I put down these last words
Like a street vendor selling sacks of
Oranges in Miami, out on the
Granite rivers where I have seen her hips sway,
And wished that she might know my name,
So that I might be invited over to her house
In the drowsy hours of a humid afternoon,
Fix an easy lunch of white bread and bologna,
To lie and sweat out in the green
Swath of her backyard, to let my fingers stretch
Across the pink tongues of lawn chairs,
To touch her thigh and feel it quiver,
To dab the mustard seed from the creases of lipstick,
Such a lackadaisical utopia without periodicals,
Our mouths closed, her eyes hidden by cheap
Sunglasses, but the meaning lucidly sweated,
As the waves perpetuate daylight prisms,
To go down easy knowing all the definitions,
The tributaries by which she might be reached,
And then let go again, released to become
the alluringly anonymous woman walking
Through the sultry arches
where the concrete falls like the architecture
Of urban playwrights, where blinding shadows echo that
Precision geometry’s noir, and yet her body flows just like
An orchard, and the tiny white buds which perfumed
Against the surreptitious press of my tongue,
Between sips of pink-lemonade, and other things.

COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Allemagne Roßmann 29 September 2011

superb write...very enjoyable...

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Robert Rorabeck

Robert Rorabeck

Berrien Springs
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