For Such Awhile - Poem by Robert Rorabeck
Mother thinks there’s something wrong
Around my eyes,
She should know, its her heredity:
Too much caffeine and no sleep,
Bad poetry, rhymes-
I’ve been hibernating in a well of hallucination,
Now look at my shadow swing across the
Wall, like it did in kindergarten,
It is the only thing that is real.
I am reading Auden, six-hundred pages
Is not easy, so intermittently I ejaculate
On a green towel, on a cloud,
And ask the simple colony of gods which sting
And eat their own, if Rimbaud wasn’t
Real, but one of them, and Verlaine a kind of
Courting thrill, the way the sunlight might often
Fall but only when a body is alone,
Reckless and on mowed grass, insects as azure
As the bottom of airplanes exploring the sky.
A glass of coffee between my legs, this little
Dog wet from the thundershower which broke
The horses until they trampled over arrowheads
I stole and gave to her.
Too many of my poems use the second person
Pronoun to be anything but helplessly amateur,
But if the roses I bought for you are still in the
Infant’s vase upon the window sill,
They have turned brown for such awhile.
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