The Swingsets And The Clouds Poem by Robert Rorabeck

When you really get this way,
Your belly gathers its feather weights: you remember
Pissing in your pants in
Preschool,
And going out underneath the swingsets and the clouds
And putting your fingers into the eager dirt,
As if it was your own womb:
And building things,
Or kindergarten: while the blue gills swim in and out of
Their own kingdoms that you can never explain:
For it is an entirely different world on the
Other side of the canal,
Even though you can see the corrugations of trailer parks,
And the stop lights like the stain glassed windows
Of gas stations;
And maybe in the sky is the enormous silhouette
Of a wild stallions rising up as it gets ready to disappear:
But then you remember that your world is
Right here:
That you went to college and have a book:
And that you kissed your muse’s mouth today and made love
To her three times;
And even though she had to drive away again,
You will see her tomorrow and you may even be able to take
Her out to breakfast.