Where It Certainly Is Supposed To Belong Poem by Robert Rorabeck

They give good rhymes to cars, and in passing,
Their daughters look really beautiful; and didn’t I fail to
Mention that all of them may be moving to Georgia
To convolute with the wavering harems of indistinguishable
Serial killers:
All the voids of parked cars diademed by icy bodies which
Have been demoted in their hemispheres to something less
Than planets;
But it doesn’t change a thing: The fact that I loved them anyways,
And now their black police force is publishing me anyways,
Because I sucked up to them like an egg sucking dog
Pissing on a blushing fire hydrant:
And tonight I will leap the hedge again and swing on the
Swings of sleeping pedestrians:
There I can turn the moon into a glowing ladle: I can make
The moon move with me through my very own constellations;
And there is no question that what I am doing
Has its own ornithology:
When I am in the darkness with my prayers flags of women not
A single person on this earth can touch me:
Airconditioned into their make believe cars like being on safe
In a game of bandit children: All the pretty girls and boys who I
Call out to as if crying in the voice of their dead mothers:
So they have to come
And trust the alligators to take them across to my deep orchard
Where the mariposas light up and glow like some vast and
Religious holiday congregated and finally moving off of its
Trails and footpaths,
Realizing with some certainty that this place underneath the fireworks
Of airplanes and Spanish gondolas
Is where it certainly is supposed to belong.