Even More Esoteric Rose Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Bushels full of fireworks in the dirty keys of
Love:
I am no longer beautiful, but I still send out my doves;
And you are perfect in your rain or in your shadows,
While all the pretty knights compete for you
In all their pretty battles;
And one has taken you to his house, and kissed your hand
And spun you like hot glass in the fires of a bedroom’s hearth:
He has figured out exactly how to spread your worth;
While I am but a disqualified pugilist weeping gore-faced
Under the bus
While all of the other kids are enjoying their high-schooled lunch;
And they are looking up into your eyes:
Sea green or sky blue, and they are following in love with you;
But you don’t know exactly yet what you need to do,
And each day comes and each day goes, and you grow into an
Even more esoteric rose,
Spreading thimble-tongued in secret estuaries, and cloistered
Basins where the sun burns down on you, giving you your dunness
To which you fill your enthusiastic young.