Like The Echoes Of A Baboon Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Oh, opulent pains in opulent grottos:
Oh, opulent pains, living with forest rangers, or living without
You:
Seeing Kit Carson Peak, but not suckling from that bastion, nor
Suckling from that summit,
Just believing, believing in something like it: and starting up and
Realizing all of the ups that are up about it:
The proud nursery rhymes, the cleverness of tourisms ringing
Just above the nursery of a newborn’s eyes:
Ringing just there like the gentlest of satellites and churches of
Braziers and camp fires:
And it goes up and up and up into pyres, and nothing I have said
Has been just right
While Diana lies down straight for the night; and all of the open
Jungle, and all of the unwashed space,
Each wave a grandmother to the entire human race: each wave
A type of species in the meaning of it all,
While I recline out into nothing to the echo of your two legs going
Down the hall:
To the echo of all of your stuff going to fix yourself in the ladies room,
While the principal’s music plays like the echoes of a baboon.