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

Robert Rorabeck

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/fried-chicken-2/