Insouciantly Gamboling Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The mother is gone,
To cut her hair- and the day is humid,
Because its not wrong,
The sun its constable pin wheeling;
The house is raw,
If made of bones the dogs gnaw:
I wash her coats and think of her, or you-
The girl fair swimming in what bright sea;
It serves a javelin to pierce:
I read Vachel Lindsay, and he is out in
The yard: all the way down where the coffins
Have melted and spilled their roots,
Hibernian in its lucky creation; and girls come
Over the flowering dead, barefooted, swinging, glib;
What knights there are raise their arms and
Construct swing-sets for these naked sisters
Who hem and haw and bight their cheeks over
Such Paladin’s starred propositioning;
And I write them novels, or at least I should;
But I get no play from the fairest things who
Are not real, when I am lackadaisical myself;
I should turn away and cast a thunderstorm
To make them slip and scab themselves;
And then better girls will come,
Nocturnal and done with hibernating, and I will
Have little difficultly preferring them,
As long as I pay- in temples constructing;
and they will make up songs
And chew gum, and say I have done a good
Job, even though they do not really care enough
To want me.