The Meadow's Stamen Poem by Robert Rorabeck

How mariposas got to Saint Louis
I doubt even they will know: even I flew so swiftly
Away from there,
Forgetting to visit Sara Teasdale’s grave and no longer
Caring about Mark Twain,
But tasting some of the salt lit carved into the fair heart
Of whatever this country is for awhile,
And swimming with my dogs,
And never even expecting that I would replace myself
To Florida,
Back to my old home south of Disney World
And fall in love with Alma,
Crooning to her while eating the young of other birds
Like some sort of Cardinal out in
Some sort of thunderstorm over a pet cemetery at
A baseball game,
While all of the publishable authors colluded with
Themselves
And put on in their walls the swell art all over their
Classy shindigs;
And then all out before them the latchkey children game,
Singing of their game shows and cartoons:
They came pulling their red wagons just the way
Cheery stewardesses pull their airplanes
Through the sky, and congratulating themselves even while
They were deified into the pinups of Aristotle’s most
Proletarian rings; until they all settled down
And got married so they could picnic like milkmaids in the
Wheat and the barley and beneath mailboxes and churches,
Opening up their baskets and singing
While the butterflies mocked them, even while their hungry
Mouths, smiling, licked the homeopathic monuments
Of the meadow’s stamen.