To The Days Of Your Coloraed-In Curls Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Little girls- dolls made of sweet corn husks
Surfing in the waves,
Won’t you caracole and hula and pineapple right
To me and take me back to the Saturn rings of
Better days-
There were days, discombobulated with yards dewed
From spilled rum,
And a few times fist fights with a succession of boys
Who now do construction that I always won:
And mostly truancies of days, day school skipping days
Where I was freeform on the canal, and in charge,
When I slipped up the easements with freshwater
Otters and made love to the sisters and their housewives,
As I knew I aughter:
There were days of you up ghostly in the tree,
Days of pollinated spikenard and paper airplanes thrown
By the winds lips and thoughts of ye;
And I knew that sometime or another you thought of me,
And you were just the loneliness down lost over many
Hair-lipped bridges,
Over so many lost and vanquished green yards-
Days, days of roman candles and Christmas trailer parks,
Swimming over the hills of teal caesuras:
Girls, girls so young and unreal, come take me back there
To the days of your colored-in curls.