The Vaginas Of Remote Control Boats Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Cenotaphs growing underneath the monuments of a
Mailbox:
You are her lying with the perennials, and waiting
For the housewives:
And you rent glorious houses here yourselves to which
You have to sell your bodies to everyday,
As the boys come into you like grasshoppers and butterflies
Wanting to make love:
And they crowd your shoulders and like your skin
With the webs of their spit
As their windows grow foggy until they are relieved:
And you elevate yourself like the dew melting off
The brown shoulder blades of a baseball diamond:
Like hot air balloons carrying tourists
Up through the power lines to look down the bottlenecks
Of churches: here is where your throat
Burns and all of its kisses burn with the fires of a
Daycare which fled away into a pet cemetery filled with
Plastic monuments and the wax lions and tigers
Which slipped warmly into your hands from
The vending machines of another zoo: like new born
Babies from the vaginas of remote control boats
That you were still too young to make love to.