While Feeding Its Young Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Flowers who can never exist in sandboxes:
What are they looking up to now, with the world of make believe
And little fingers surrounding them,
The imprints of a game that the wind takes away,
Arousing the stewardesses as they turn around like a game of
Prizes at the midway,
Or sudden fires from the small lips of bottles, cantankerous
But fickle under the moonlight of a playground,
Are good for only one kiss,
Dripping the mocking lamentations like the insincere love songs
Of a bird
Who, dripping its wings across the surf of ant lions,
Is only on the search for pretty things,
To diadem its brambly carriages, back at home where it does its
Best jobs while feeding its young.