Expecting And Describing That Only She Can Be Real Poem by Robert Rorabeck

How to have been away out through the suburbia
Our legs the pistons for a pantheistic heart
Out on the hunt, pattering for muses, proposition
The moon for them to love us-
Hating and denying its stolen light when she does
Not love us;
And try to recreate our jaunts in the middle of broken
Number school days- defying the flaccidity of
The less than stellar rhododendrons haplessly placed
By the teacher’s desk by her enamorous pet;
And I didn’t even realize then, but if I could I would
Have just stolen out under the quite even habitat of her
Desk, while she was weeping for her father,
While her unworthy boyfriends were falling away like
Uneven petals in a game of love;
And I could just close my eyes and listening to the ringing
Of her chapbook jewelries across the graffiti’s
Enamored beneath the swollen elbows of her rich pane:
To be like a cenotaph beneath her, this Sharon or muse,
The hallways to us like ancient sea caves made perfect by
A worrisome god,
Echoing and sieving out the sounds of that maudlin beauty,
Knowing that she is everything priceless,
Expecting and describing that only she can be real.