The Wind-Thrown Bottles

Warm as the cantaloupes rolled from
Beneath the trees—
Sweltering there, somewhere abandoned
In the upper armpit of Florida—
Perhaps in the dream of
A crocodile that was never born:
Somewhere now,
Wayward latchkey—
Perfect in his abeyances lost
To the billboards of amusement park,
Assured to over ripen in the weeds,
Virginal, never to taste the
Caresses off the lips of housewives:
Lost there to the serpents
As to the flies—
Like a bachelor in his lonely studio
Filled with an overabundance of sunlight:
The joy in the room bloating him until
He awakens,
Scourged and overly sweetened—
In his final moments enjoying the reflections
Of sweaty rainbows,
The prisms birthed from the slanted and
Stolen refractions off the wind-thrown bottles.

by Robert Rorabeck

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