Your Roman Sky Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Gradually receding sounds go to forage
Further away underneath the coolly banyons
Where buses sleep in beds
Of sweet pornography,
Where lizards mate with colorful birds in the
Joints of trees which spread
Like fans who reach out to caress airplanes,
And the sky is so rich it is like drinking wine:
And the boys come and lay out and dine,
While the serpents move,
Whispering the special’s menu,
And I am here wrapped in the filigree from
Falling off a cliff bereaving like a great
Pagan in its tinsel:
And we all lay out and crack open books,
And smoke and drink and steal our looks
Through the sky
And your metal buses with arms stretched out,
For we know that there you are leaping
And riding in your chariots of superimposed
Gods,
And we share every breath with eyes glued to the
Blue,
Because you are our only god,
Titted pie, and we would lie there for always for
Just one glance down from you;
We would do your laundry until we died,
Just to get one whiff of you like an orb of
Spanish citrus flung like a perfumed baseball through
Your Roman sky.