Wet Dream Of A Well Crafted Boy Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Now through the arrhythmias in the screen doors of
Common hotels,
I can hear the traffic dismissingly burning their taillights
Like the devil’s lanterns, like the red tide of her
Sea life,
In the wishy-washy gardens of open keyholes where the little
Fruits slither,
Where the eyes of man and ambiguous baseball players
Peep
When she is raining naked on the handball courts, body raised
Like a thug pealing into a migration stuck like wet paper
To the lip of a wet dream of a well crafted boy in
A private school.