The Kilns Of Our Young And Unmolested Offspring Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Bodies fill up with noise
Because it is you that I want as I slam the glass
Down:
And I feel like I am kindergarten and have been dragging
Up wished from the overused rug at naptime while
My parents are underpaying me,
The sad phantasms who will never learn anymore of my
Despotic gardens,
But this is how they form for you,
Alma: all alarmed and from the gut: this is how they sing,
Even while your womb has been busy disproving my make-believe,
Now I have a house for you too small to be your
Castle, to be your cave,
While all of the rich and purple boys pounce their tools for you:
They are all too ready to be your slaves,
And why haven’t you been out in your front yard dancing in and out
For me,
Alma:
I have stolen so many roses for you, and I would take you to the new
Make-believe of my abused cataracts,
If only if you had any new feelings for me, and none of this
Could be disproved,
And then our countries could sleep together while the lions
Yawns and the luscious breads bakes in the fountains
Of the kilns of our young and unmolested
Offspring.