Warm Bottles Of Suicide Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I grease the snow over
Which the
Cannon balls
Practice magic tricks,
Floating like old
Fashioned jaw breakers,
Lovers of little
Children,
Confections of high
Ball
Dreams,
Bowling alley trances,
And the ways
You look
At him;
You are such a match,
On your voyage to
Damage my liver-
I raise my flag and
Surrender
But it’s just a
Trick of light to
Buy me time,
As I watch the
Heavy iron kiss
Snowflakes
In the low sky
Yet somehow safe
Above where you’ve
Set up your
Pretty coffins
To sell you warm bottles
Of suicide.