Their Joysticks Of Crepescule Poem by Robert Rorabeck

So many ways of crying home: waxy of bosom—
Making the foxes foam:
And the will follow you just as long as there is
Day left in high school:
If you go out into the courtyard: If you go out onto
The baseball diamond, you will see how
The yellow tombs—
As your mothers corsage in the daydreams of
Their suburban ballrooms—
And the truancies of your little brothers awaits up
On the rooftops for you—
Pretending their joysticks of crepuscule—
The alligators smiling gallons for their primeval tanks—
And your fathers coming home,
Picking up girls in roller skates and languishing with them
Atop of the grassy tombs.