She Swings Up To No Good Poem by Robert Rorabeck

These are not songs,
Or cantos to raise the smoky, rose hatched
Dead:
The stewardesses are still alive,
And they are independently beautiful.
Diana no longer lives in the woods,
But has come north from Columbia so that Florida
Must be to her like Michigan is to my father:
And all these used cars are junks,
And yet all the movies are so wonderful,
While my fingers stroke their tremulous flagpole
And lay for awhile the longitude in a celibate
Bed-
This day goes on forever like an unexplorable orange
Grove,
And I make slight friends and slightly more enemies,
And I always want to see what is under her hood:
The fairy tales of her loose morals
That are always perfumed and practicing the foreplay
Of her brass knobbed senses,
And she sweats,
And she swings,
Up to no good.