The Perfumes Of Unrequited Bouquets Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The gold ribbons over the brown skin,
And now we are all here and talking reasonably about like:
Drinking beer until something accumulates
Into baseball,
Making sense through the immodest jungles, while the stewardesses
Use themselves through the sky,
Making so many wishes, gathering across the lake,
Finally falling asleep in the green trees with their red wagons
Naked of presents,
And your lips who once spoke to butterflies in Mexico,
Finally whispering the dew of your dreams onto the quietest pillows
In the lattening innings of your room,
As if a manning a base on the team of your extended family,
Who promises you so much,
Even though I am always the one, Alma, who buys you lunch,
And floods you with the perfumes of unrequited bouquets.