The Next Morning Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Nothing but a dirty boy naked except
For when I sleep:
That is when I put my work clothes on and set out
Down for the burning canyon
Where the trains and airplanes are always ending up,
Wrecked,
And the species of sooty tourist and housewife
Come like wounded animals out from the darkness;
And the best of all, the creamy stewardesses,
One breasted like Amazons punched in a fight
And made to retreat up the footpaths that ooze like
Gray spaghetti in my skull cap:
We meet together like wolves with forest fire eyes;
And I run my bones up and down the smoothest rivers
Of her thighs,
And I do good work, and I sing:
And I am fully famished and a hero come the awful light
Of the next morning.