The Way A Painter Does Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Standing off by myself with the pigeons
Cooing in their shade,
Watching the busses turning around,
Spun off the hips of housewives
Wanting to kiss vampires—
Returning famished from shopping
From their afternoons:
Now look at how beautiful they
Are, open-bloused in the air-conditioning—
Their ceiling fans collecting the
Dusk
Like Christmas lights and chicken wire—
Until they finally cook dinner
When the winos go to sleep underneath the
Palms—
And further away the waves caress the shore,
Touching her the way a painter does
When his wife is not at home.