How To Play Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Circuses of tricks and good looking women:
The inspectors want more money from me: I just want to
Ejaculate and string out on the swings:
I don’t need to be around other blond boys: I can be my own
Sun flair quiet alone:
I can change the dates of the month while my grandparents
Are no longer alone but up in their deep or shallow graves
Names pressed against their hill.
Like I wish my name was pressed against yours:
Two be the other wing of your butterfly, to smell your scent
While I deliver your letter to the world:
I have been delivering your letters to the world for the better
Part of a decade, while you have sucked off the spikenard
Of really lesser Sherpas:
I can carry my own truck up the icebergs of the Mother Goddess:
I can make it back down on my tippytoes, barefooted:
Don’t you believe that my wishes for you have been real,
And that you are the only instrument that I have ever cared to
Know how to play.