The Swimming Skeleton Of The Singing Wind Chimes Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Clouds in asphalt, in the graffiti of sweet things,
Swinging their hips to the store to buy roses for
Themselves while the rain slings;
Oh, I’ve been singing out of school early again,
Watching the honeys picking up gas- I’m raggedy
In the brambles all my scars are browned bagged:
Every tender v is higher strung than I;
Oh, how sweet it is not to have to look one titted thing
In one venal eye; to enjoy the reasons of the gainfully
Unemployed- to fart in the litters of death’s convoy-
The reptilian monarchy knows better words,
Ruling forever their flamingoes’ soft conflagration,
The easy pantomime of frightening flight the housewives
Put to good use in their sororities satin-lined;
Areolas and suvs, runs in their pantyhose, gurgles from
The park swings; I drink whatever liquor I find stashed
Out back in the weeds beneath the clothes-line;
And I swing underneath the brindled palmettos-
I hook my arcs and curveballs far to the corner of where
The better girls have warmed to the infinitely better gentlemen,
Their children mewing like breast-fed kittens;
And I fart and tell jokes to shadows, my eyes ever present
To the swimming skeleton of the singing wind chimes.