The Baseball Games Of The Empty Airplanes Poem by Robert Rorabeck

White stars underneath the palmettos—
It means another angel is falling in love—or my old
Muse's rabbits (that we thought had disappeared)
Are making love,
As the rainbows bend like scoliosis around
The swing-sets—as the sky tightens
Itself,
And takes practice swings at the burning pitch of
Sun—
And my parents sleep somewhere in the north
In the ellipses of make-believe ovals—
Where my father's eyes perceive all of the riddles
Of rattlesnakes,
But he has run out of time as they strike
Three times
Like the persistent salutations of a solicitor—
Something is knocking on the door,
And I am in love with another woman—but daylight
Keeps to itself in its nest underneath the palmettos—
Like living jewelry diademing the joints
Of horny truants who go down there sometimes—
And give kisses to themselves underneath the baseball
Games of the empty airplanes.