Bell Jar Of My Current Inventions Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Venal breath marks on the tears of windows.
New air-conditions which cough like sad gentlemen
On your cheeks and perfumed neck,
But you can never see what they look like, and you
Are just about to go outside to first take in the weather
And then go to work;
The cypress trees are hung over, and would that they
Were filled with so many lost kites from little boys,
Like tiny little trinkets from the beach,
But they are not;
And this is your world, and it is not filled up with the
Beautiful joys that you have never thought of,
That I think about every day, that I put there all the same,
Crowding in the amusement, trying to cover you up
With festive cereus even though I haven’t beheld your
Liar’s frame in so many years,
To disavow who I am not to you, to smother a careless muse
In a bell jar of my current inventions.