Their Everyday Lunch Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Paper birds sweat through the sheets
Of adulterous armpits;
And she seems to sing with all she’s got,
Waiting for the mail of drowned soldiers,
While the waves come in,
Counting coo and dying like all of that stuff
Which seems to make up this nonsense-
Further inland there are tables with still-life
Moping,
And little boys of all ages are quite happy and
Masturbating,
Waiting for their crackerjack prizes,
While their women are shopping or looking out
Of hurrying windows
As the day goes by recreating the colors of
Its cereus constellations-
Soon beautiful Latin women will be bringing
Us our lunch,
Busily trying to decide which one of us they love
The most;
But it will hardly be enough- The continents
Float like sweet young terrapin, and if I’ve never
Had the chance to think up anything else,
At least I saw your eyes seeming to float like
Something bluebird and somnolent- Surely something
That could never die,
And maybe even love me- married, and yet so
Lonely with me, when they were supposed to be
Enjoying their everyday lunch alone.