The Metamorphosis Which Happens In Our Peripheral Vision Poem by Robert Rorabeck

They said there was a most beautiful
Chance happening just a stone's throw
Over her shoulders—
Until all of the baseball games let out,
And they hid the uneaten cotton candy
Underneath of her shoulder blades:
I could not say if she was even one of my
Muses—I was too drunk
And not published,
But I looked into her eyes furtively—
The metamorphosis which happens in our
Peripheral vision, though you knew me
As some sort of a teacher,
And almost an adult—
As the pageantries were flying over the moon—
And the unicorns knew that they would always
Be in love.