Jordan's Room Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Hours echo from the breakfast nook from the
Kitchen,
And rabbits take over the front yard in colonies of
Earthy holes which break the horses’ legs servicing
The army:
From where I stand, I am in Jordan’s room,
And there are bits of sun falling on our youth,
And I haven’t run away yet to Michigan,
Or gone to summer school, and we look across
The street to where the cheerleader is flexing her legs
For all of this suburbia,
And we eat hot dogs, and play video games,
And masturbate in between the glints in the pool:
I haven’t yet known you, or graduated or slipped away,
Nor have I known to think that I cannot change with
The other tadpoles flagellating in the concrete brines;
After the migrations, the torrential rains, and the clay
Left unevolved in art class needing her hands,
I lay under the broken bus and try to keep my eyes closed,
While the fat and ancient tortoise eats her orchids,
And the rains patter on the corrugations of weddings,
Women with new names who used to ride their
Bicycles back and forth before my eyes,
Their legs waxy axioms now receive the brush of
His pistil, powdered chartreuse they nod like violins,
And the neighborhood grows evening, like the end of
The play with a whole new cast, encoring, taking bows:
People I cannot recognize mow the yards I used to play,
And the school is filled with younger versions,
And the old friends carry off laughing and mumbling with
The silhouettes of tide, leaving only the alligator basking
With the last of the sun, acknowledging my
Petrifactions and patiently waiting.