Your Carelessly Wimpled Shoulders Poem by Robert Rorabeck

In the callous divine of spikenard
And ambergris and bear-cats
What are you doing, but making your
Ever ready,
Playing topless hooky into trailer parks,
And looking good on the mobile vine,
While the little children are sunning in
The rusting bathtubs,
While the marble fauns are proudly
Crumbling,
And the torpid teachers are put to dull
Pasture,
Chewing their every day verbs and
Equations:
And the sun is winnowing like grain through
The declivities,
Through the stony canopies where the
Water orgasms like freckles or chickenpox
On your carelessly wimpled shoulders.