How strange the reanimated legionaries must <br />Be going as they fell up into your Pleiades <br />Which aren’t even real constellations, <br />Just sisterhoods somewhere in the hallucinations of <br />The jungle- <br />Or like not dressing out for gym, <br />And getting to stare quite contentedly at her jiggling, <br />And not having to do anything about it: <br />And this sun is a constant good sport, <br />And we drink vodka before class and quack farts <br />Right alongside the toads in the premeditated algebra <br />Of the sweet young campus’ landscaping. <br />Right before us the sky is like the pink rose I passed <br />Over to give her for the <br />Red, red roses, to hear her mouthing off and laughing <br />With her friends, <br />And then having to watch her up on the lacquered stage <br />Kissing the leading man, <br />But never believing it was real, absolutely; <br />And then all of the days receding into the migrations of <br />Wolverines and school buses, <br />The mailboxes opening up clear throated at our cul-de-sacs <br />And turn abouts, coming homes into the <br />Laps of middle-class huckstery, the sugar-cone estuaries <br />I’m sure you know about: <br />Watching Jordan’s sister Abigail digress into her nudity <br />Beside the best of all pools, <br />And the clouds cottoning to their own pace, <br />Having now reminiscence for who I might love that <br />Very afternoon.<br /><br />Robert Rorabeck<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/that-very-afternoon/
