Like A Paper Cut Of Beauty

I have turned out again:
I am here on my early morning stage, waiting up for
Crepuscule’s backwards sister,
Looking for Nubian eyes over a despotic river of
Mailboxes and the housecats
Who curl up in every yard underneath the stunted cypress:
I wish there were bicycles I could take to you:
Take straight up past the chicken wire guts of Disney
Blowing all other Popsicle stands and Space Mountain
Just the same,
Forgetting my adulthood and the times that you have spent
With just your other men,
Just as you probably did tonight, while you blew off what
A really good graveyard could mean to you:
While you never swing nor go down into the Devil’s sink hole
To hear the happening echoes of the flappers that
Once drank and spoke easily flirting with the fisted heavies
Of your town;
And if I turned up, you would have so many favorite colors
To put me down,
But still I wish there was a sure fire way straight into the glorious
Gizzards of your happening little town,
And candles to light the manholes of your transoms behind where
You swim so slowly with the laces of curtain draping over
You until you surface come morning,
And eat your breakfast in the pool of your own grotto,
Maybe your eyes never shifting from their eggs and salty venison,
Because you never have to believe again in the superfluous
Beauties of who have been making tracks toward you
In the days and nights of your drunken coolies,
The tourists who spy you out of doors and the students who study
You superfluously like a paper cut of beauty who goes
Unnoticing through her chores.

by Robert Rorabeck

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