The Sight Of Her First Green Storm Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Scars recede to new abutments under the
Castillo de San Marcos: We who live our lives
In different stages of vending,
Do not know the ways in the mermaids know,
Whose boudoir fetishizes the grinning remains
Of conquistadors;
We go by the way of tourists. Poets sing who
We despise by our outfits,
And girls in summer diseases cough bosoms of
Roses from those lunar trains of
Perfect middle-class easements. Waving there
Like flagella or like flags, while the good airplanes
Superimpose the meaningful instruments of
Long legged breasts, who are answerable to their
Captains as to my free verse:
Harems of just ripe women saying their pledge,
Baking their cakes, leaping the hedge:
All above tree line, circumnavigating around the
Expensive necks of the Himalayas, going, going like
Esoteric nursery rhymes, so dizzy to fall into bed
With any properly groomed man: We can do anything
With our lives in the dunes of lost joys;
I have my flesh in hand, recreating the parade of
Missing newlyweds, my closest relatives two tortoises
Escaping from the carnival shows. I am so very glad
To be aware that I am utterly alone-
It is the only answer there, to see the girl smelling
Like Dr. Pepper on the Root Beer float:
She looks like a sailor ready for bed- A yet metamorphosed
Honey with a good head,
Who breathed her first breath by the kiss of my pen-
And I would like to take her our for fake sunsets amidst the
Leaves of loose pages, publicize her like the negligee of
A weather vane all excited at the sight of her first green storm.