Like A Ferris Wheel Sneaking Away Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Where am I going—another day gone into the
World—
Where is the bed where the sun rests,
A bachelor,
Tawny and crackling with his books: I think I
Saw him underneath the overpass,
Like a Ferris wheel sneaking away—
Elbows and necks filled
With gawdy flashbulbs—the tourists following
Him like sour-milked puppies:
And he rested there, cramped—his light turning
Everyone not Mexican Mexican—
And when he arose again, the first thing he
Did was rushed to the sea,
Merely a step away—and calmed himself naked
Dousing her feral adolescents into a mother
He could not call his.