In My Fumbling Rains Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I drink rum, and by the end of the month I will
Even have my own little house
That the pets can lie in, and we can hear the waves the same
As we heard the lions roar down the street
In our adolescents:
And one time Erin called us out because she wished to
Sit near me beside the bonfire,
Though I didn’t come, and she was already beginning to realize
Just how many boys that she was good for:
Marching their royal palmed legions:
Absolutely gorgeous bicep-ed centipedes like hefty candles all
Those so many nights
That she tossed liquor at the bar, and shrugged me off:
Those patriots of her body really enjoyed and she fell in love
Every other day,
And now my poems are short and cadaverous: They don’t make
Eyes with anybody save for substitutes;
And the come out like piss-stained wimps from the cardboard
Vacillations of their libraries and pet cemeteries
And weep for little superfluous things that never had much of
A reason for existing:
And they think of you and complain as they lose cohesion and
Melt like witches,
Or beautiful working girls named Melody, that lose track of time
And enjoy getting lost in my fumbling rains.