In Parts A Poem Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Monday is having a holiday. I can see it all the
Way, over seas-
Girls in little photographs who’ve been in
Little plays,
Who now sail out on cruise ships on weeks of
Sundry days: While, I am in the riddle
Of my writing room, but I don’t care.
Mommy Fortuna’s carnival, forensic underwear:
The familiar song of the road danced upon by my truant
Fingertips,
Every daddy wanting to be so bold, discovering
Ballerinas, ingénues fast asleep under wayward pines;
I see her, but I have someone else on my mind;
And it goes down like this, naughty boys in the rain
Sputtering from the gutters, carports in washing machine
Noise, my mother almost electrocuted by a naked
Extension cord, and latter on a jubilee of spikenard.
Retired neighbors drinking domestic beer, pornography
Across from here, busty blasphemies, oh bright dear,
Oh azalea, what are you, but getting your pilot’s
License, daydreaming like an angelic acrobat swooning
For the slick mustache of her swashbuckling lord-
It has two means, which is why I keep coming back to her,
The smell of gasoline and her shampooed hair,
Another night of cheap liquor spilled precisely 1879 miles
Away from the lacquered bed board of her boudoir:
3 parks Jesus, to one part wh*re.