Through My Daylong Work Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Pigment of another god,
Mexican beer and fireworks:
The sun slips through
The day,
And Joe shows me how it works;
And every woman has different eyes,
Like the windows into her bosom,
But they all seem to keep to a certain
Time,
Creaking in the sloughs,
And certainly gathering to shop in the
Store-green estuaries.
They never loiter,
And they never have nothing to say;
And you are one of these ducks
Crossbred with an airplane,
You got further up,
Above my head and out of my league,
A snow crystal burning on gasoline,
Dirty from another tongue:
Joe knows how you work;
He pulls the string and you dance like
The sun’s marionette,
Never with nothing to say,
Like pale celery crenulated from the
Muck bottoms of Holland;
But no matter how many times that
Old pale blue eyed man shows me,
He was divorced and his son
Drowned in a Michigan river or somewhere,
And now he never truly has the spirit
Of a magnificent conductor,
So I can never seem to get it right,
My job to control your toy species mucking about
All bosomy and certainly not nocturnal
Through my daylong work.