Scrimshaw Lanes Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I am of the opinion to blow up
All industry
Except for arcades and
Massage parlors, and to
Banish all
Semi-professional sport except for
What happens to occur on
Campus bowling alleys,
So that I might do this,
Flirtingly with the administration,
And invite her
To sit on my knee
At a steady gallop
For both of us to admire the
Scrimshaw lanes
Of oiled and buffeted teak;
To cheat off her crib sheet
She keeps stuffed in her brazier,
Her eyes overcast by flickering bangs,
To keep a look out for the cryptic,
Spanish skullduggery advertised by her abandoned gaze-
And to serve her green beers and hoers devour
Between her musketeer lips,
To mull over red liquorish and candy cigarettes
While it is storming outside,
To try and keep score while tilting her back
Trying to make sense of striking
And streaked vertigoes,
And count the tumbling pins,
Licking my thumb and smoothing
Her brow,
Shaking her loose
To let her ginger tresses tumble
Down across her dun-wheeled shoulders and her
Suprasternal nick,
To light our fuses in time with the thunder-
Wouldn’t that be a gas?