Waiting For Her To Fall Asleep Poem by Robert Rorabeck

They made up Plate Tectonics for Sharon,
This sick muse,
Mouthing off in Sunday school, a liar of good-looking
Science:
I know now this Earth doesn’t move;
It is a quiet place made all at once, a nature preserve
With cars that purr:
I remember gold fish in the bowl waiting quietly to
Die
So that they could bask in the amber pools of gods
Hands.
Why can’t I, if this is the place, and the swing-set isn’t
Being used.
I look up into the sky of the sick muse,
And if it is coming down seems to be slit by Occam’s
Razor,
The easiest of science is the ambergris in her empirical
Eyes: The hardest to disprove, empirical senses
That combat the utter beauty of my drunken angels,
Who always seem to be made up with broken wings
Anyway- So they give up to her world of really sweet
Traffic,
And clutter about her knees waiting for her to fall asleep.