Pistils blooming like pop-guns, like <br />Party favors— <br />The sky explodes over the horses: it riles <br />And blooms in cartels of witches. <br />What a show for the airplanes as well as <br />The otters, <br />And myself—skipping school, lying on <br />My back in the hollow canoe, <br />Floating through the changing rooms of <br />The canal— <br />The housewives do not see me, <br />Lying on their backs and watching the <br />Young Mexicans picking in the orchards— <br />The pilots do not see me, nor <br />The juvenile titans, for they now are <br />Watching all of the stewardesses who are <br />Dreaming of playing baseball games back in <br />High school, until it is finally time <br />For all of them to go back indoors <br />To watch television and eat fried chicken.<br /><br />Robert Rorabeck<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/fried-chicken-2/
