In The Everglades Of Your Overrun Soul Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Christmas ornaments strung out and smashed
When they were supposed to be up on stage
Garlanded and thrashing for
The miracle play- and you said it was going to
Be a good show,
But now all my words are wrong- they are unconcerned,
And she doesn’t love them-
I am the sort of thing vanished into the narcolepsy of
Life’s deception and there you go back and forth with
Your new ghosts cheating into cars;
And it’s not something I like to envision:
That I should have to vanish or even die, while the
Alligators and saber toothed tigers remain, insouciant
In their own sort of passion play,
And you’ve taken his name, the way it rings around your
Bosom like a fresh areolaed paint job,
And I am not a bad man, but I am not beautiful,
And I suppose that is why I should have to die and leave
The stage halfway through the show,
Without the audience’s sympathy or any note of fanfare,
Just another tiny island overrun with spikenard and cormorants
Deep in the everglades of your overrun soul.