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

Robert Rorabeck

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/peacock-feathers-2/