With The Drumming Of Excited Hearts Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Sommeliers are singing in their wine
Gardens;
That is what they’re doing, or they’re turning
Into seagulls,
And scooping silver fish from the sea,
Like great strips of tinsel floating in the long
Green hair of a vast and naturalistic maiden:
That was always what I supposed;
And when they get thirsty, they lie down in the
French sawdust right next to the slender
Docks with the gondolas where I am trying to
Sell my bread for words;
And we pour wine from a box into her lips,
Until her eyes turn demure and askance toward
The Eiffel tower where the tourists are churning up
Like mechanical confections;
And entire clutches of hummingbirds hatch from out
Her nose, and baby’s breath, and tiny dolphins;
And they all swim down those dimpled avenues,
Gently sloshing around her lips;
They stain her white lapels until her infant cries and wants her
Home;
And we’ll take her hand, knowing that it is what
We must do, and enjoying it, for doesn’t she have the bone
Structure of an angel, which still gives us license to write
Even in her absence of over ten years. We saw
Her when our occupation was stealing bicycles briefly,
And then only for ten seconds inside the Chinese restaurant;
We had to watch her kiss the cook,
But if he is her husband now it is not relevant; and even if
It is someone else, it is our hand she is relying upon to
Guide her lactating fleshes under the franc aphonic heavens;
It is just delightful to turn even briefly through the
Ways with her,
And listen to our footsteps intermingle with the drumming of
Excited hearts.