Where I Remain Dreaming Poem by Robert Rorabeck

When the lions germinate they are asleep:
The airplanes are silver quarters in the arcade of cerulean sky:
And this is south Florida, or this an arcade:
And the lights are out, but the power lines, like camels,
Are still good for something:
And the canals form a safety grid so that the afterlife of
Crocodiles doesn’t flood in and disturb our Christmas;
And I don’t know what better words to use
To become the special place of fawning reptiles: If you are not
Around to receive this attention, then make sure to garland yourself
And your daughter in the sweet shade;
For it was never my intention to vulgarize you in the salt-lick plane:
Yes, I have been up the backside of so many mountains,
I have effervesced with blue collar legs from the insouciant of
Ice-cream shops of tourism;
And now why don’t you serve rum, or why haven’t you become
The better iconoclast of my sleepless harem:
Why don’t you turn off the lights and become brail:
Why are you still starving me with empty lunch pales you use to
Build sand castles when you know the tide is coming in,
And your cousins the mermaids will soon be sautering with firemen
And the better licks of the green flames of fireworks:
I don’t know what it means to be, for I am yet still in the last stages of
High school and you are the captain of the soccer team:
And I have never seen your house let alone your bedroom; and yet
Those very same orange groves is where I remaining dream.