Last Of The Conquistadors Poem by Robert Rorabeck

A coyote yips somewhere close.
I pause the movie to listen,
And step outside and masturbate.
The new stallion is penned next
To my glass door. Unsettled,
The beast screams and tries to escape
Nearer the females’ scent.
Startled for a moment, my eyes focus on
The small points of light above me,
A beautiful map I cannot read.
Before I finish one of them falls.
I feel alive, but soon
I will die as distant obsessions surfs
The beaches of Saint Augustine, trapped
In beauty, gated by men, and the empty
Echoing of high school where her mind
Roams forgotten. She is an addict
With metallic bouquets in her forearms.
I think of her, that warm continuation
Like floral wallpaper at the right
Moment feels alive and saintly next to
The porcelain basins. She still serves drinks
And I pretend to be a Catholic walking drunkenly
Through the emptiness of the University
I once attended, trying to find her, yet
Only seeing her twice far down the halls
Many years ago
As my mind becomes disinfected from
The weight of bones and takes off
Through the dropping palm fronds which
shade the stone benches of resting students
somewhere in the center of Florida, where a hart
Stumbles blindly upon four legs before
Kneeling in an unknown space before
The last of the conquistadors.