The Same Things Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Fine young bodies will lay just as
They will,
Telling each other secrets, looking up at ceiling fans
And then to whatever sort of verandas they have:
Kitchens off to the side,
The night stokes, sirens abuse the darkness,
Bicycles pick their spokes: and in little clay pots
The flowers blush, beside where the chimneys stoke:
There is a high school somewhere near here,
And a field for playing or making love;
And I wish to divide like the mitosis of starfish here;
Yes, I wish to migrate here like the final migration of
A butterfly;
And work the rest of my life in the little plantations or
Zoos, feeding all the aquatic mammals with juice stung eyes:
Like the mermaids in their underwater barrooms and grottos,
Which make me think all the same things of you.