That Awful Bird Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Washed and even enough to go to
Church,
But not shaven nor thinking of my dogs;
And it is Monday and I get distracted by
The empty swings-
It seems that ecstatic words have motion like motor
Sports,
Like my honey’s legs:
Carefully reckless words dance and jeer at
Death,
And he swoops down and collects their lips like
Sports; yes, of course, to
Decorate his nest.
This time though everyone is waking up in
Somnolent chorus and they’re dancing words
Until their feet are hoarse-
Then if we must go down together like Dorothy,
Then I suppose we must,
But at least we sang some songs before that awful
Bird got the best of us.