The Red Bricks Of Philosophical Capital Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Careful lovers ignoring the words of this sinner;
The way ideas come together like ants over the
Motionless ankles in the grass;
But there is only so many things that can be said to her,
So many wounds before the battle drowns;
There is only one queen in the sea of so many shades
Of envy;
And when she plays basketball her hair sways like
Really great ponies;
Then the airplanes waltz or they serenade; and I touch
Myself just briefly before the open throats of
Mailboxes while her parents are away,
Square dancing in another state over. Maybe she is
Trying to swim away too, using the interstate is her escape
Route, rolling past the elaborate mirages of
Orange groves and Shetland ponies so that I used to love
You’s can only come like whispers to her now with her
Ear pressing like the most delicate of a virgin’s senses to
A freshman’s pillow,
While she dreams of other boys all night, and wakes up
Drooling like a bluebell, like a stewardesses who smells like
Wildflowers;
And then she goes out into the yard under the red bricks of
Philosophical capital and kicks the ball around,
Just as I knew her once to do.