Hippies And Sand Lions Poem by Robert Rorabeck

If she called me a hippie,
My misquoted Tallahassee lassie,
I could have told her that those rubber tramps
Were fine gentlemen compared to me:
I could have been a lover but now I’m a pest,
And the only way I could get her to look
At me was to die,
But I haven’t done that,
And now I am just something that crawls across
The shade of her picnic table while she eats
Melons from his hands and doesn’t mind the stick:
I am either a spore or an ant carrying one,
But I am working,
And soon I hope to build up and take the bar
To become a sand lion,
And then disappear into my trap and wait for her
In the little funnel in the patches of dune beneath
The slash pines,
And say that I will mow my yard and paint my fence
And hang up “For Marriage” signs,
And wait, and wait, and wait for her, until the sun
Gets greedy and over fed.
Then she will come and I will kiss her like a
Doctor’s mallet, and then knock her out in bed,
And say things to her beauty which she will never
Know were said;
Thus in the morning I will take her to the kitchen
Over looking the teal canal where the early sun is
Rising like a returned tennis ball,
And I will feed her likewise from my hands,
Thus she would know for certain what I am....