The High Schools Of A Fertile Yesterday Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The bodies turn for age old champions,
And we had lunch together and then you laughed and went away:
I wonder if in the sweet soft song lights of your parents,
If your dumb husband ever goes down on you
Like a fairytale princes into a mine of goblins: I wonder if they’ve ever
Taught him how to love and pleasure a woman,
How to be a very custard gunfighter,
While everything I have been doing is wrong, listening to the obnoxious
Math of airplanes,
Underneath the pinwheels of their leapfrogging gears,
And listening to their captains:
Alma,
I have told you I loved you and bought you lunch for this shortest time
That I have known you,
But I want to skip right across the courtship like a really alabaster stone
As young and flat as the throat of a fearless and prepubescent
Melody,
And christen you with my German name, and hang savage decorations upon
You with my tongue in our bedroom,
And sweat it all out, and show you all of the capitals of my states,
And test you, and put my tongue like a welcome stranger
Into your ovens of transoms, and
Perfect my art like the symbols of our gods over your body;
And make you laugh,
And turn you younger and younger just as the newly fastened cars
Are returning all of the bright young offspring to the
High schools of a fertile yesterday.