The Adulations Of My Senses Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Guts of languid piñatas: soft birthdays of quieting holidays:
Lighted in the birthdays of Alma’s little
Boy:
And now this, and now this, a toy boat lost in the last
Real sea,
Peppered by the stars, like a hickey on my shoulders she left
Me to travel on home to him:
Sure to fade,
While the pregnant snake suns its belly in the grasses
That are whispering,
Gossiping with each blade- and what does the sunlight do
But go on a fieldtrip:
It doesn’t even fall in love with anything; it is just stepping
Through,
While high above it in every morning of everyday:
You lavish your brown shoulders underneath the softball sun:
Turn on your perfumes,
And puckering in the declivities and the come ons of
Your overpriced dollhouse, drive into
To work underneath the water coolers of the adulations of
My senses.