Tributary Into Those More Serious Of Rivers Poem by Robert Rorabeck

These poems are memories of dead frogs
And bourbon,
And the chirping calls from the carport,
And children in blue pajamas,
And cerulean tarp flapping like throats
With too much skin atop the roofs,
Dancing for the hurricane and the
Moon’s ogle;
And if I were to bring you here tonight,
And lay my hand upon your knee,
And touch the plated joint, as well as your
Eye: Would you as well allow yourself
The deeper inhalations atop the serenity of
An un-aroused neighborhood,
And could we see from there the storm lain
Across the sea like the sheet a lover dries
Across a brittle yard, or a sun blinded shroud,
And our children playing there as well,
Un perplexed by the merriments of such
Well-perceived chaos
Arranged for quiet sale, displayed in those
Swaths of either gentle or apoplectic grandeurs,
Which, in either away, allows us to hold one
Another in frivolity, until the stems are joined,
Made tributary into those more serious of rivers.