Your Tiny Birthstone Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Mailmen can never be found on my
Alcoholic swings, because they are whistling and attending
To your neighborhood of sweet knees;
You dab your lips to boy sized dragons in the apiaries of your
Boudoir;
And you swing as light as a cypress bough doing magic,
Making the tiniest of airplanes fall asleep in their
Bird houses:
And little people come out in tiny worlds,
And scarecrows fall in love with perfect strangers:
Each finger of the dark glove is its own galaxy which claps
And grabs in a waltz in the carport where the ghost of my
Mother still survives:
And the dogs come out like gentlemen still learning to speak
Under the meaning of your eyes;
And the toads hold court with rebar and thoughtless places
That seem to recall the meager brightness of the colors you have
Dreamed in,
As you come just as wonderless over the busted lips of
Conquistadors now as good as cenotaphs; and yet if you know the
Signs then the world speaks of all its history of adoring murders,
As the guilty fall before you; as I would and use all that
I have learned today in the wayward fruiteria to pleasure you,
To give you a divine buffet in the centerfield of your
Red diamond,
Pitching, pitching, and saying tiny prayers into a paper bag full
Of jewelry,
Your tiny birthstone you keep hidden in your unawares.