Bosom Of Humid Secrets Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Jesus- blasphemy this disease,
Here I am out cursing underneath the beautiful
Trees:
Every evening doing this while the greater public
Shoots off to baseball games;
Watch my mouth, feed my dogs, and pray,
Tell god about who I loved today-
Stewardesses served me drinks, and showed
Me leg,
But it was all but a necessary game; they were
Just hungry, they had children and wolf pups
To feed-
They lactated their honeys for dimes and jobs:
All sorts of jobs, the women undressed beneath
The eaves,
Getting suited up for better offices,
Skipping across the canal, the underworld,
The pornography molting in the junkyard under the
Chirping overhang of Australian Pines and palm
Trees-
Lots of changes with meaning: blue birds out in
The open, the storms, the hurricanes, the sugar canes
Burning; and if it is beautiful, then it is real and the
Wildlife worth feeding,
To steal and show to god and let run across the
Green carpet where you’ve been quietly bleeding,
Waiting for me to come home from the show
With your bosom of humid secrets waiting.