To Go Inside Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Gun of fire-engines
How will you sound while the citrus is yet plucked
And yet round:
How will you echo over the graveyards and pet cemeteries
Of this town:
Even while I go down to the parks in the semi darks after
The gas statations have all closed,
As the roses cloth the anonymous graves of the dead
Working girls
To which the stewardesses become a symbol over:
Flying over
As I wonder if the alligators ever yawn: yawn,
As the kites are strung
As the key deer fawn- speckled, as the corn and the
Cantaloupe grow from the coolers
Of make-believe- of almost believable snow:
When my jaw is broken like a cenotaph,
As the windmills yawn,
And her brown arms collide through the perfumes of metamorphosis:
As the tadpoles sing of fairy princesses:
Until we all have to take a step back,
Clutching our lucky rabbits’ feet, escaping the kisses of
Rattlesnakes- and thunderstorms,
To go inside.