The Noon Tipped Sea Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I am here mouthing off to the fish who always move:
The thunder is sounding, the traffic is muted:
I am warmed into my home, while Alma’s pony-tails
And miniskirts are off a ways and sleep,
Like the spindling iron pyrites of Ferris wheels who don’t
Even believe in themselves:
And then they arrive straight out of the jungles of
Car ports and trailer parks:
And when we have children the first thing they learn is
To light off fireworks,
And we watch those things that we don’t even know how
They were made bursting above us:
And I love you, Alma, and I talked with your aunt today:
Your godmother; she’s lost thirty pounds since
Her man Romiro left her to f$ck his cousin in guerrero
Mexico,
And now it seems like the planets still exist, and I will be going
Back to work with you again tomorrow, or Friday,
And your young sister Yvette will be coming to work for
The fin de Semanas on Saturday:
And I love you, but the trouble is I cannot spell, and yet my
Soul is still filled with the faux and disbelieving dramas of Hollywood
Which I guess infect all of our souls while we are young and
Growing up and latchkeys on the prenatal field in the baseball game
Of whatever these stars believe, as we go blistering, naked-hearted
Or feet bared like milking kittens, the curtains and furniture
Spread like an autopsy of a really beautiful forest;
And then there will be a parade, and we will go out beyond our screened in
Doors and have to blasphemy the heavens that cost us our whole
Heavens as the egrets rise up like green emeralds,
And we buy a cradle as bright as the noon-tipped sea;
And I say I love you; and yes, yes I do.