Some New Kind Of Baseball Game Poem by Robert Rorabeck

On a wash day, the traffic streams a river.
The bears are watching from the brambles, they've
Tumbled into the briar pit for fun.
They are learning to start fires,
Discarded tires and porno magazines from the '90s.

They think zoos are funny, as I watch them
Holding torches, their little ones coughing.
As I am stuck beside the road,
Held up on my way to the flea market:
A helicopter is circling and to pass the time,
I pretend that it is some old lover
High up there holding a bouquet
And swearing she'll finally pay me back for the
Traffic tickets I paid for
That she got for speeding to see her husband
Who was with the horses and centaurs
And barmaids and wild cacti of Ocala.

But I have a daughter now, filled with laughter
And some few words. A flat tire and an impending tropical
Storm may ruin my week financially,
But here are my few words strewn to the golden
Pigeons and ghosts who cannot see me, but feed off me:

My wants strewn like semen,
The milky tears of clowns and barmaids.

The traffic is a river with an infinity of points:
If you want to go that far you can, with birth and death
At every exit:
There are advertisements to pine over
And wild boars, and alligators and iguanas:
But the cenotaphs of conquistadors have all quickly
Sunken under the sandy deserts,
The salted stilts laying the foundation for the amusement
Parks.

I may go home busted, but at least I saw the brown bears
Eating cotton candy and cracker jacks.
I think they are inventing some new kind of baseball game.
Erstwhile, my children are waiting for me.
As I said, I have a daughter and she a little pumping heart
That crossed over five bridges christening her first birthday.