Past The Mailboxes Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Copper thighs gleaned by golden razors as
The stewardesses prepare to fly; or as I road in a car
The other night with a woman who looked
Like a female super hero;
And when we got back home, I touched her leg:
I touched her thigh,
It was as smooth as the ancestors in a river of a laughing
Boy,
And she ran away just as fleeted, like every girl whoever
Half loved me,
Promising me that at least a few of my lines were
As beautiful as they could be: but she loved another boy,
Another man, who was more impossible than I,
And that I loved someone else besides;
And I knew that her words were no good, but I watched her
Throw them up anyways, like paper snowflakes in
A saraband of sky; and they danced over the shoulders of a
Pretend cowboy who pretended to bleed and die,
As she got back into her car, out past the mailboxes
And out past crepescule; and underneath the airplanes and
Pretended to drive away- Or I suppose, at least,
That she really did drive away.