Into The Rich Classes Where They Belonged Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The boys really brag that they have the candles well
In hand,
Softy as gossiping butterflies, and tiny drinking fountains
Purring over her fingers;
As if this is where they’d found her out while they
Were all alone, early before school in the mowed ovals of
Sleeping tracks,
In the wet enclaves of baseball diamonds, and wherever
Their feet fell- far back along the last vestiges of the easement,
Watched by the eyes of alligators who would never own a
Name
Until the seeds of the city actually poured into the classrooms,
And they walked back into the halls and saw once more
The breathy wishes on crutches of skirted legs, bemoaning the
Conduction of their courses,
Enclutched by golden musings, and bending low across the theatres,
Stopping for awhile and then just as regular as carnivals
And geysers, removing themselves once more from these visions of
Daydreams,
And promptly sitting themselves deep into the rich classes where
They belonged.