Bologna And Bouqets Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Yes, you are looking beautiful, dear,
But I’m just here to buy my groceries;
And when at night, I run my laps and grade
Those papers, I might think about you,
And the way you looked grabbing each thing
With your painted nails like bruised Easter eggs;
I suppose, the way your eyes were winged like
Bawdy butterflies, I might have told you I’d
Been published quite drolly, and then when you’d
Made love to the everyday boyfriend, I’d come
Upon you like an asymmetrical headache, and
That little silken brush I gave, what passed between
Us besides our commerce, I could not say;
I am in my studio with my dogs, and a slight fever,
And it rains outside engorging the pool, who too
Is hungry for lovers. Thus across the weedy fence,
Frat boys fart and light off fireworks, and a stray
Hound is stuck between the rought iron of the cemetery’s
Gate. I don’t know, but beautiful blonds are already
Trying on outfits for Halloween, and it isn’t yet
April. Do you work on Sundays? I don’t care,
For I’ve just come for my bologna and bouquets.