Her Favorite Colors Poem by Robert Rorabeck

We don’t have to have sex:
We can eat ice-cream underneath the maypole
Waiting for the weather and
For airplanes to come around-
Because daylight will be here tomorrow,
Even if she throws it all always,
Or the highway always leads to death
And the dead brothers
Who accepted his gifts:
There they remain, immortalized for the troops
That march towards the mountains:
They go beside the preschools
Obsessed with their primary colors-
And the little children stop and gaze
Like oracles-
And tell the men through the night blooming
Jasmine
What limbs they will lose,
And what permanent gifts they will gain-
As they laugh into the future,
And the dogs follow them- for a little while
There is joy,
Until their masters are lost through the impenetrable
Penumbras of mountains,
Except for those cavalier few, who fall beneath her
Waterfalls and ruffle her areolas
Until the geniis come out gasping, naked except for
Her favorite colors.