The Quiet Game Of Latchkeys Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Stewardess go on planes all day,
On long slick silver panes—
They leap across the canals of my childhood like
Double spaced lines,
Like hoodlums, and rowdy n*ggers—
And things I shouldn’t say:
I get to look up their routine skirts,
I get to skip rocks across their bellies
Corrugated at the gyms,
Made slick by the easily appealing aspirations:
Everyone of them is beautiful,
Everyone one of them whispers her name like
The ocean annunciating out of a plump seashell,
And I should pick one out and marry her,
And put her in my band;
They all say I can do this, but they are leaping so fast,
Serving their clinking drinks,
They make even well-shaven gentlemen calm and drowsy,
And there they go leaping,
Their skirts sashaying the bow-string aisle, pink amphibians,
Their skirts deep Catholic blue,
Pain-killers, their knees well-curved, swift opalescence,
Unearthed Etruscan crockery;
And I don’t even know what it means,
But I fold them up in my hands,
Bosomy origami and watch them slip around the
Ceiling fans,
Slipping like ribbons along the currents of red
Lips blowing kisses,
And the midmorning talk shows proceed to evening
Sitcoms,
And my stomach grumbles watching the shadows
Grow,
And the grass quivers well-mowed outside the open
Window,
And I fold my knees up to my chin as I watch them
Go, lickety-split, serving their hot toddies—
Laughing the way pretty girls should do when they
Are all done up in their sororities,
Like a bundle of sticks placed conveniently
Beside the fires,
Waiting for the door to swing open and end the
Quiet game of latchkeys making time until
Days draw close, and dresses slip under clouds,
And home comes mommy.