The Baseball Diamond Mists Poem by Robert Rorabeck

These pillages of words from a mind imperfect
From kindergarten, you would think would finally grow tired
From the immaculate hedgerows of the occultish windmills;
But everyday waking up inside the thin walls of
A trailer park or an Easter Egg finding itself on the branch of
A dusty road,
And staring out the windows again: the cars moving like the crossbeams
Of sunbeams,
And the world at large, even in its capitalism, replete
With so many populous and repeating needs, the orifices and
Universities of this jungle keeping for awhile the echinopsis
In bloom while the prettiest of Mexican women sweeps
And dusts the corners of my studio’s room;
And then I lay in wait for her, like something heavily toothed
And good for her competition,
As the slow waters are filled up with so many stolen hopes of
Abandoned bicycles,
Until the final amusements of the summers come to an end,
And we all have to pack our lunch back into our tin cans, and stand and
Wait through the baseball diamond mists for the busses to turn around
And pick us up again.