Housewives like naves, <br />Like low strung truants sleeping in their backyards <br />Of days, <br />Strung out and as drooling as mastiffs on the pretty <br />Easement, <br />Until they become cleated with the neat patterns of <br />Floritam: <br />Which is the greenness I brought for them to rest like <br />Easter and with bottles of wine <br />Undouse themselves and remember the sun <br />That rose like a clementine from <br />The gardens of am: <br />How it crackles like an artist on her bankrupt jaw: <br />Her eyes as open as transoms that are sure that they always <br />Saw such a thing that rises over her sprinklers <br />And her little garden every day; <br />There quite naked she has become the better accoutrement <br />To her uncounterable landscaping; <br />And she is purer than the liquid body of the grass snakes that <br />Encounter her like a pink ribbon high in <br />Their greenly firebreaks, <br />And she yawns and quivers through the freckles of <br />Fire cracken and hibiscus: <br />The bougainvillea that ride up the side of her house like fish <br />Net stockings; <br />And the flotsam jungle of clouds that ride over her bared shoulders <br />And make her nuptials shiver even before the bicycles come <br />Breaking home to wake her up for afternoon and then for dinner.<br /><br />Robert Rorabeck<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/then-for-dinnner/
