The Ballroom Of A Queen Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Words played on a ship going down,
Like beautiful women forced to undress themselves,
Sticky fetishes dripping with anticipation forced to wait
On the shelves;
And I saw your eyes going to art class: your eyes crossed
Mine, and I said a prayer:
I forgot my locker combination, by the curl of your hair;
And now you have a daughter, whose words are coming
Soon,
But you still have lips which make both the big and little
Dipper swoon:
Sharon: your body is a shade house for everything I have to
Sell,
Your time is the unction that would put a solve on my pall:
The angels are taking the interstate down from the sky:
They are leaving their Christmas trees unattended, they are not
Fishing or masturbating,
But they are coming down just to cut out snowflakes for you
That are covering up the paths I once used to get a good vantage
Point across the horizon,
And to enjoy a nose bleed just to see the tiny city that recedes
Around you like waves rippling from the ballroom of a queen.