If you are getting up and coming off work, <br />And your eyes are lamp shaded with little silhouettes <br />Leaping and foraging like a giant zoetrope of <br />A spaceship out in the desert, <br />Then I don’t know who you are; but I am betting that <br />You make soap, <br />Or you are like a student in Fort Collins, CO, <br />And you have a bicycle, and you go that way across <br />The lemonade promenade <br />As you get up on the antediluvian plain of Long’s <br />Peak, <br />And I have found arrowheads under your lip, <br />And though I told you that you were beautiful, that was <br />A long time ago, <br />But it is even truer today, and the baby we should have had <br />Creeps like lighter fluid through the grass- You see he <br />Has learned to get up, our little gamma ray; <br />But even if we’d had him by now, I am not a man who ‘ <br />Knows how to keep a women tightly pleased when her skin <br />Is the perfect amber, her eyes like precarious though stalwart <br />Bridges crossing the fjords, <br />And her bosom the brown squeeze box, <br />The peach fuzzed harpsichord- and you had no reason to love <br />Me more than two seasons of a day, <br />Because your thoughts are lighter than chicken feathers- <br />You watch talk shows and wait for the fox to enter the coop, <br />And it is a different fox with a new moon <br />And yet their bright red tails are always such murderous fanfare, <br />Like the throats of drowsing conquistadors, blushing <br />Crustaceans in the nearly prehistoric beach, their jugulars severed <br />By arrows feathered with proud birds like peacock feathers, <br />Though now I am sure they no longer exist.<br /><br />Robert Rorabeck<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/peacock-feathers-2/
