Of Time Honored Baseball Games Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Here is the prism, floating up like a mad
Scientist on Nitric Oxide:
This is the turtle dove sticking its neck into the
Sea,
Afraid of the ice-cream truck and baseball games,
While the long necks of giraffes graze up extraordinarily vast
Above the earth,
Pillaging for snowflakes,
And they can see how the sails of grand explorers are
Melting eventually away,
And the can tell of the convexities, even while your children
Have become lost again:
And only if you’d waited; if you’d had waited, I wouldn’t
Have to practice my cap guns up into the fortnight,
Or at being the poetic so prematurely buried;
And we could hold hands together knowing that we
Were fully in love
And growing up and up, like over eager foxes learning how
To pillage the grape vines,
Even as the caravans of red faces conquistadors were making
Their own way up the switchbacks up what would eventually
Would become the overly clever mountains,
Who in their prenatal eons were too dumb even to contemplate
The distempers of fiercest humidities of time honored baseball games.