Even A Ladder Needs Its Fireman Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Everything is at its finest, so worry.
In the groving rows the pits are buried deep to
Hurry;
And the lion has no need to count,
The clouds in the sky don’t want to hunt:
And the movies are on television,
The finest vestibules of our species who couldn’t
Lift a gun to save themselves.
The wedding bands, so soft and smooth,
Are lost to the ocean’s sales.
All the pretty wives are hapless in their kitchens.
The kittens in their pails;
And when I lived next to you, I lived so far away from
You;
But now that I don’t know where we are,
Are we so close that I can close my eyes as you orgasm,
As your man touches you like butch-fisted bouquets,
And you squint your eyes trying to make out who
He really is.
And your daughter is building sandcastles in the grave.
Even a fireman needs to save a kitten from its
Tree every now and then,
Even a ladder needs it fireman.