In The Spittooned Canal Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Now the November winds are calling through
My door, and I have nowhere secret to go since the
War is over: I have books I love, and secret handles,
But her breasts have slipped from my cusp to feed the
Infants, and the sea is so reclusive, so alien; How the
Politicians rise in sleuthy gleaming, how my dear
Uncles come knocking upon the doors, and even in their
Silences I stalk out through the old widow’s catwalks,
Into the flumes of citrus: I would kiss her here,
If such was the implore, but she has sagged away into
The calls of another lover, and her hand is ribboned with
His lore; and yet, I walk richly through the darkened
Nebulous of a forgotten neighborhood: sleep walking,
I dream of marking the cleft of her lips with my cheek,
Like bighting into a firm apple already voted:
I am scarred, and far away, and yet clearly her man:
If she should see me, and swoon, I would catch her in time,
And lay her down in the passenger seat of my expensive car,
Drive her far across the ocean, where young actors are
Recalling extemporaneously their lines before they are incased
In carbonite; and “blah, blah, blah.” Can’t you see I am
So much better, but we already have a new president, but
Such politics mean nothing to me: I’ve already queued up into
The line with the seven dwarfs, and with our rich applause
And jenesaiquoi, I exhume her from where my grandmother is
Already lying; even though she is just a child, I will buy a crypt
Nextdoor to her tombstone, and saying this is real, pertain
To her diseased recitations and the egos of her high school already
Passed away: Nobody shall read this, as already it is rainy and making
Plinking jazz on the corrugations, then we get drunk on Dave’s
Roof, vote for Republicans, and shoot of fireworks, as he tips
Her back as a chalice, fondling her breast; and in the end, haven’t
You seen how good I am, how I come back for seconds, after you’d
Though I’d already done; I come in you again, and you swoon,
Like a bosomy opera; even though he was better looking than me,
It is I whom you remember, because I came down to you, and
Gave you the quaff from my lips, because even though it was clichéd,
It was right for you in the dusking period, and you bent over
For me, and showed me the outline of your panties, and I knocked
Into you from my suppositions, my handy vagabonds from
The doorsteps of eerie holidays: Now here is where I laugh,
Like a well-published conquistador, or adventurer back from her
Door step: Never fearing, for I know nothing can be certifiably
Real. Thus I am driven back to my doorstep in the wildlife
Preserve, turn the key in its latch, and diminish, microwave
Dinner, watch tv, and jack-off; because, in the end of the plaintive
Romance, she is the only thing whom is real, and you are the
Man who is real, and I salute you from the back door of my
Castle, and jack-off, while the alligators fart, like trumpeters
Blowing their instruments in the spittooned canal.