To Bother Her Poem by Robert Rorabeck

What is the day doing in its night,
Finally undressed with new predators and
Ghost ships,
The games of husbands and wives,
The nocturnal blooms and necrophilia’s saints: Oh,
I don’t know,
But the sounds of water falling of zippers of games:
The classes are done dear,
The fires are done, the ancestors cremated,
The dinosaurs:
The planets are less jealous and ashamed, and they swing
Like playgrounds around your unlaced boudoir:
I know that’s what they were doing even
Before I was born,
In the darkness of womb out deep in the sugar, sugar corn:
What sort of flowers bloom then in the night when
We are doing these things,
And Kelly steps out and bathes with the butch roses,
And the moon is almost perfect and making her breasts momentarily
Levitate before they have to be tugged back down for their
Newest new borns;
And she is no longer Catholic, and maybe she doesn’t
Love me,
But her eyes are just as perfect and abandoned in the darkness:
And she kisses her man and falls back down beside him
Into the grotto where the dragons and the serpents are
Also breathing;
But she has known them all day, so in the night they have
No reason to bother her.