The Lion's Insociant Grin Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Wound up in words of baseball
Trying to out pitch the laughs of witches
In the trees,
The pitchfork pines and cypress wound together
So that you have to squint through the failing lights
To tell the difference,
Like barbed wire wound about in the old fires of
That neighborhood over the sleek canals
Populated by blue gills,
And all of the old choices of once pretty girls
Who ventured only so far from home; their story of
A fable of what they would wear,
Baring their shoulders to the totality of sports,
Overlooked by the little brothers too busy folding the
Paper wings of sightless prayers underneath
The ceiling fan to wonder or to care how far
Away they would have to roam,
While the sugarcanes blistered and the pines combed;
But surely it was not far at all,
For already here is their wedding, their casting call:
Indeed, indeed, they are home again,
Pasting the lion’s insouciant grin; and, yes, they have
Everything: they have found it all.