The Lazy And Sun-Molesting Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The weathers of Corvettes looking into outer space:
While girls as tiny and brown lie in the easements smoking their
Thimbling lips up into the sky:
As all of their uneven English is over spilled, and the bluegills
Surcease by the empty cages of sand lions:
And then I sit out underneath the clouds and become all of
One color; and it seems I have to keep counting my most
Unimportant change,
While the fairies who were in her armpits are over spilled-
And the candles in the hutches of little cabins no bigger than the
Aspirings of patchwork dolls through the unhealthy mothballs
Of the canyons on her afternoons canyons fill with the
Recesses of her libidos unassuming graves:
Maybe it was always like this, and always will: feeling my own
Cheek bones underneath the shallow estuaries of the burning
Windowsills: sometimes before this supposing or presupposing
I was beautiful: or just beautiful, but having to turn away:
Counting the numbers before they are colored, and then
Cooling as the song birds of my yesterday and my kindergarten go
Cooing with the sad tears of the watercolors of my latchkeys go
Turning the locks, and jingling home again disappearing before the
Red ants of the open and most insouciant mouths of the lazy and
Sun-molesting pride of lions.