Your Busy Garden Poem by Robert Rorabeck

In your body’s movement, a religion:
And sea-life:
Pink lettered sandboxes and orchestra,
Gypsum:
Underneath your corduroy an artist’s garden
These topiaries of limbs
I know we can sell: your bosom an ice-cream
Truck for your children:
And I am just the man at the door singing what
He hopes will be your name,
Two silver pales strung across a wishbone along
His shoulders:
Maybe he is just a wolf that wants to be kind
Enough to lay down with the innocent lambs
Of your busy garden.