Guessing That We Do Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I want a family of pretty girls to be smiling at me:
I want to be holding the last flame out before the Cadillac’s
Of the last primitive estuary;
And this is my plight, crawling beneath the salty phalluses
Of washed out lighthouses:
I want to be a little boy attending my own funeral:
I want to be a thief who steals over bridges and into the women’s
Locker room;
And to taste the salt off the ankle bracelets of her ankles,
And to come down with her right here in the middle of nowhere as
If it was my job,
And everything else in this dirty blue planet was lost and didn’t
Care:
I want the architecture of her brown skin to hang in the arbor of
My elbow after midnight:
And so we can listen to the trains and witches go by together;
And we can become not so sorrowful,
And I can smell like her uncaring right beside my coworkers
And my cousin who is taller than me
But whom Alma finds less beautiful; and I want to go with her
Until we become irrefutably lost up the swaybacks of gulfing mountains:
So we lose sight of just about everything and making a dressing room out
Of evergreens undress and sing like songbirds feeding their
Young to each other,
And go down and give her gold into the little cricks gossiping and
Building up of otters,
So when the airplanes come again they seem just like gods
And we light up like diabolical candles of graveyards and amusement
Parks just about right underneath them:
And we run away together to the canyons of Arizona; and god helps
Us after that, or just holding her arms into the crepuscule and
Through the modern mailboxes after dark, listing to the last songs of
A baseball game over the graveyards where no one happens to be
Buried that we can remember to love; and yet we go together,
As the light bulbs of Ferris Wheels comb the night’s migratory
Brilliancies, guessing that we do.