Centrifugal Offices Of Young Tom-Boys Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Centrifugal offices of young tom-boys
Laughing in the sacrifices of wasted times:
They go lilting upside down in a strange
Eclipses above the highway,
Their light-bulbs honking,
Areolas winking with waving gasoline-flames:
And too, down by the zoo,
Swimming with the aquatic crew, I’ve seen them
Doing some of the same time, smoking peanuts, tonguing
Limes:
And they have not yet manifested in a harem-
Or a club: they don’t bake pies of take delicate sips of some;
And they make no social sense,
They just go leaping backyard fences like exactly wavering
Hurdles,
Stealing apples from the polished senseless;
And you might say that they aren’t worth your time,
That they go without getting dolled up,
And do not diadem the affluent jerks of railroads
And beef jerky- Heck, they don’t even know how to
Carve turkey,
And they’re just wasting time, laughing in a roadside
Show like crimson diamonds, wet and pouted-
Their filaments burning in full blow,
Free for a lark, like honey mustard on shark,
They are my sibilant holiday- and I don’t want them
To ever get out of my mind:
Their legs straddle my vane purple temples and squeeze my turtle-head
And without their bosomy infection,
I’m sure I’d be amidst the well-suited dead.