The Proof Of Your Favorite Colors Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Bicycles make love before they are spent
Away in a immiscible city in the waves with satchels of
Letters:
But, Oh boy, I don’t even know if they are about love:
The city is lilting,
And the strangers spill like popcorn on Christmas into each
Others’ beds,
And when they find each other, no longer cuckolded:
They tend to grow as tall as pitch fork pine trees,
Until they destroy everything, and yawning they are just
As tall enough to rub the purring bellies of commercial
Airplanes:
And I am not going too far: I am jut going a foot or two
Over hear,
To shoplift something else for you, Alma,
Because I have made the sea our bath, so all of the immortal
Swans and their ugly duckling are bathing in
The caracoles of hurricanes;
And finally something feels immaculately right about the chaos,
And I can yawn in the mouth of a loin and petal my
Paddle boat chock full of snake oils over to kiss
And give hickeys to the lovely brown throat you have opened
For me,
Using the green keys that I have plagiarized, using the proof
Of your favorite colors.