The Crestfallen Baseball Games Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Then we were all developed like the pornographic butterfly
Trying to make love in a bedroom in the middle of
The afternoon while in the living room all that was on
Was séances of werewolves and soap operas:
But it wasn't too hard to make that lovely woman come—
She did it without any effort at all: remembering the heydays
Of her high school—and the lamps that spilled the
Children out in the afternoons in some kind of cone of
Their free-for-all, their eyes half blinded by the bright spots
Of the sunlight leaping over the reptiles laying across the
Crestfallen baseball games-
And your mother, enjoying her weather in the swamp on
This side of the blinds—knowing that all of a sudden it would
Have to come back home—flooding into her,
Making her strikeout in bouquets that would eventually be
Left all across her tomb.