Honey Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Tipsy: I have been published by a criminal,
A privateer commissioned by the queen-
For where is my money, I say, or I sing:
I wish I could write derivative science fiction by the
Truck load, I wish I could swashbuckle, or, at least,
Be as industrious as my most industrious of uncles:
For now, however, I am doing all right, sipping my rum,
Looking mighty fine tonight; and finding myself in a rhyming
Mood, over eagerly laughing at how impossible it is
To be published, to become lucrative in my dysfunctional
Condition: but, you see, I love the moon,
And the mountain; I am like a pig on its truffle: I am
Done delivering Christmas trees, and I didn’t do have awful:
I am almost him, almost enough money to buy a house,
Almost enough talent to get my name out: What I would really
Like to do is get down on my knees and worship you;
If you have a scabby knee from roller-skating, I would like to kiss
It and press it like a scabby flower against my scabby cheek;
I would like to cheer for you at the roller derby this weekend
Or all week; Now the sea, that is something else, that is a funny
Thing, and I would like to live right next to her, but she is an
Expensive thing; and what of you now, honey, how much I
Want to say your name, but you have given me no excuse at all-
To say your name, and you’re the one I blame.
And maybe someday soon, honey, I will
Move right next to you, and work upon you, and give you all my
Money; because I love the moon, and the mountain, and concourses
Of waves; but most of all it is you I love: I love you most of all,
Honey.