The Mostly Perfect Pornography Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Inside the places which fold into into’s
I waited for my parents who had left me in the careful
Hands of a daycare—
The latchkeying playground that never so happened to
Finish high school,
But was there anyways—in the balconies of the
Sabotaged places
At least where the marionettes hang themselves
Anyways—right there in the folding wings of
The airplanes’ bouquets—
And the sunlight stutters as it comes up upon the failing
Amphitheaters of the reckless
Playgrounds—
And little boys who are better known than me
Always chop—and chop the cherry trees down—
As the little fairies are folding up
Their wings,
Like golden books: they sleep like pornographies inside
The hoods of sleeping cars—
If you haven’t seen them there, you haven’t walked far
Enough, because that is where they are,
In their very little world where they are the mostly perfect
Pornography—
And, when yawning, their mouths open for a brevity of an
Aforementioned anywhere—
Because that is just where they pretend to be.