In Sumptuously Being Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I do these things for you, Sharon- because it is as if
I am trying to chant for rain in a tinsel of silver nimbus:
It is as if you’ve called me over to fix your sink,
When all you really want me to do
Was look up your skirt:
And I remember passing by you on some sad Wednesday in
That book open hall with so many locked tin coffins
Of lockers that led to where you put your hands
On the ghosts of soft clay in art class
While your father was dying,
While Erin was studying Latin unsuccessfully,
Where before I kept my greasy forehead to the gummed desk;
And I was already heading out,
Out beyond the failsafe borders to hide like a terrapin exhausted
From the fixed race underneath the broken down school bus:
I only did this one or two times,
And the lunch lady caught me on the last and called me out,
But ended up letting me go-
But I saw you on the way out, and you were so beautiful,
And you seemed to understand and love me even when I was not,
And maybe I only passed you by while you were
On your way to better things and Colorado;
And I doubt you should ever have to read this or tell your sweet
Daughter about the lies of Pinocchio,
But I am not a fool: I would plant the aroma of my gold underneath
Your bended knees at some desk in class,
And sniff you and make love like a sommelier to some rosy
Bouquet-
Now don’t you understand, I am not perfect- I am only commuting
Through states of awful imperfection,
But if I might sit beneath you for some leaps along the way,
It would give meaning to the journey;
It would force some deity out of the shadows, and astonish the
Rest of the disbelieving passengers when they see that your overpowering
Mythology is the very reason for all that
Is sumptuously being served to the dining senses of your flighted
Beings.