Reflecting The Heavens Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Nothing good left in the supermarket—
Nothing missed or passed over by the eyes of the stewardesses
Having touched down even in the superficial hours
After midnight and wondering around
In the twenty-four hour playgrounds—
They are trying to size things up, their legs increasing their
Vocabularies—
Their hands and the parts of their bodies which lie naked
Suggesting the rest of themselves to the men or foxes that see them,
Enjoy holding those material possessions that add up
To the increases of a lonely happiness—
And when they drive by, the parks are just as silent as the
Graveyards, and the swing sets have already been taken down—
The places they move beside just as blue as the next—
Back in their grottos, they have marionettes just waiting for them—
And ticking crocodiles they have taught to cry—
The language of poets trying to enfold them, but they shed
The words that wish to don them as muses—and they walk
Around by themselves—grape vines for the foxes—
An artwork give aesthetic truth to the shoals—
A pornography that reflects the heavens in every design.