My old muses live here— <br />Holy grounds of junked cars and pornographies that <br />Have already bloomed and wilted: <br />And I don't want to live here <br />While I am alone: the dragon cursing and <br />Getting up for fornications in which he spits <br />His fires to the naked girls like <br />Hamburgers and hot dogs underneath the sun: <br />And it is not a pretty art, <br />But it gets the jobs done—Ferris wheels under the minds <br />Of my grandmother's grave <br />All throughout all of these altruistic pornographies <br />Where little girls are just born <br />To turn into werewolves pushed against the seven <br />Seas—and made to do math in classes <br />Of high school—where the bands practice next <br />To the yawning alligators where so many <br />Indians have lived only to appear again: brighter, <br />And phosphorescent—as if all of the word <br />Was a cavern where the housewives lived <br />And fought off the wolves of young boys and <br />Young men who just wanted them to be their muses <br />And brought to them fruit baskets and carried to <br />Them apples pierces with from their venomless <br />Fangs—with the most hungry expressions in their eyes, <br />As they carried themselves over the softest estuaries <br />Of the minnows, <br />But otherwise kept to themselves all of the time.<br /><br />Robert Rorabeck<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-softest-estuaries/
