Fever Of Unkind Loves Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I am dying, dying,
And the traffic doesn’t give a piss;
And all these boys are born,
Fighting,
Sunburned pugilists.
And the night is up: it is real up
Like a carnival of cast iron,
And it wont be coming down for months,
And you’ll love your boys and
Flip over for them,
And the slash pines and the Australian pines
And the boys with better names
Will applaud and they will fight fires
And learn how to spell and some math,
But the traffic wont give a damn;
It won’t hush,
It just continues on like the noise of a pilgrim on
Its ways to Canterbury in a rush
Knowing without knowing that its author is dead,
And there are only so many things to
Spell and misspell,
And the night is beautiful,
And the dunes- the dunes hold your eyes in the caesuras
And cenotaphs of burnished conquistadors,
As the traffic comes on insatiable,
And you teach school from your desk high on a
A fever of unkind loves.