Your Thigh's Pinkish Highway Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Follow me to the door if I will be going,
And the greater lights are turning down across
The drills and water tanks, the men unbound
From them and dropp their tools and queue
Into bars and fight, but I have come to you; my
Lips get off to salivating, prepared to speak,
And your door is painted all white and daisies
Are in red clay pots, but it is getting dark.
I noticed the flag was up on the box, and a shadow
Of a tall man through the window, but I will knock,
Because I’ve driven so far down from the oil rigs
And chainsaws, and if you should kiss my neck
Beneath the scars, my eyes will light little fires on
You and keep warm in those opal nooks, the
Tongue purveys, another attempt at children to run
Backdoors and down into the tangle ribbons in
The trees; If I stay tomorrow, I will catch a fish
From the brilliant stream and making you naked
Lay it upon your inner thigh, and compare it,
While your eyes swoon to the hidden nest of birds
And patches of light and panting green; This is the
Way you should swoon in between the whistle’s
Blow and the engine's steam, and the surveyors
Diving rods: I should find your well, and test the
Depths and in the morning yawn and feast, and
Put my index finger on the text of your breast, or
Point to it if out of reach. Then you should let me out
With a lunchbox and a hardhat, and paint the door
In the morning, and turn your back as I go to work,
And bend your ass, and yawn the drooling way eggs
Crack into the bowl, or if you allowed me, to
Drip upon you the inky dough, my tongue the dividing
Line of your thigh’s pinkish highway.