The Easiest Way Through The Quietest Hood

Popping on the lights, I look at my reflection:
I get so excited I sing
As if on Christmas, this country is a good place,
Going down into the valley and the zoos of Easter
Sunday:
Erecting tents of marketplace speculation:
And the most beautiful thing is that up above the
Clouds can be anything, but they are just nothing
Just the smoke of the chimneys off
The grasses breathing like the mighty coat of
A vehicle the cars mind,
And the pretty girls turn out on the turkey-leg glade for
Supper time:
All dandy in their milky surplices like rows of candles
Upon whose lips I want to make wishes:
Bodies strung together like pearls stripped naked of
Clams,
And they are out on picnic parade blowing the butter off
Their yams,
Beheld by the spindly jewels that the crocodiles have to
Give;
And they move through the parks of industry, a sisterhood
Of gypsies whose math is always good
As they light the easiest way through the quietest hood.

by Robert Rorabeck

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