With Games I Cannot Understand Poem by Robert Rorabeck

It opens up in all of us
A smoking ballroom
Where the airplanes
Fighter jet, or dissapear;
And the sanguined
Bees lose their wings,
And their flowershops,
And tend to crawl
Around of
The carpet of some
Living room for
Hours and hours-
Without any movement
Of her hands
To get them where they
Are going long after
The tourists have driven
Home,
Super saturated-
All of their advertisements
Cut down as if
Airplanes from a mobile,
Like fish escaping
Back into the sea;
Finished with games
I cannot understand-