Early Morning's Play Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Let's string the stars
along our street,
so you can look at me
and say nothing,
and I can see in you
the great distance of
our sexes;
In our loins the needs
of curious time travellers,
the experiments in
the humid cul-de-sacs
that lap one another
like folded space
after you have gone
away to become a professional;
I am still following you
through highschool-
I spent so many days
with you thinking back,
both of us ingenues
of our state's education,
the highest rung of
mammals
walking on hind-legs
through the sunlit jungles
of South Floridian modernism.
Now a cubist sitting
in your office,
collecting you things;
now you can not see me
nor do you recall my name.
You are busy tasting the
Hind end of a pencil
figuring out the plan:
grown fully now, the
result of a high-end nebula,
a family recipe-
but in strictly geographic
terms,
I am even higher up,
kissing the sun's ass,
thinking further west how
your toes must feel
the Atlantic's tongue
licking them like
an allegorical puppy
I imagine you must keep
hidden away
within the preschool
of early morning's play
when someone not yet fully
realized
caught your eye and
called your name to come play.