The Headstones Of The Classrooms Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Bodies who will like children
Need to finally
Rest
Under the lips and breasts of
Terribly lovely mothers,
Breath and eyes put into
Heavy sacks
Like caterpillars into spider webs;
Like you, I have been here,
Where cops turn to stone
For Medusa in her
Hideous changing room;
When I once thought to
Kiss you in the grotto
Down under the musselled
Steps of the aqueduct
Where we skipped school;
But you have never
Really gone there,
But I have never truly felt the
Need to be with the
Posthumous
Shells of such a
Vibrant body;
But only to feel the
over eagerness of your soul:
To slide into your
Senses like a
Virgin refreshing in her
Grotto
While all the less
Fortunate kids are sure
That they are learning something
Far
Less important back in
The perfectly aligned desks,
The headstones of the
Classrooms in school.