What Is There But A Greater Morality Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Rhododendrons, rhododendrons
In the wheel well of her eyes,
And little garden snakes slightly sleeping- And theme parks
Overcrowded on midsummer Sundays,
But shut down from the rain:
Where I stand shivering with my middle-class
Family, the wife with the temporary newborn
Slipped down to her awesome hip,
The drool and encrusted sour milks.

Still I think I can see her like a glimmer from the east
Over the cobalt blue castles of stucco and chicken wire,
Just on the other side of the failing fireworks,
Over the backyard habitats of crinoline swimming pools,
Like memos scrunched up and set afire when there is sunlight
And beer:

Something bottle green and coming down to the sea,
Where things in love lose their otherwise permanent expressions,
Where there are no librarians,
But the dalliances of shooting stars and leaping airplanes.
She is there; where there are no gates in the waves,
No fees, nor the common definitions given between
Two sexes queuing for the obtainment of the usual fair:
Embedded far to the east
Like a fairytale for feral boys and flight attendants,
What is there but a greater morality.