Like Corpulent And Boisterous Tourists Poem by Robert Rorabeck

My mother didn’t realize that this was
A satire,
Growing up and worshiping Satan in the white
Flowers,
The moon like smut over her pale shoulders:
Maybe she was a fish,
Or maybe I should not be singing anymore, seeing
All the wrong I have done,
All the cars I have crashed- They said after the
Evils and the journeys to the secret skating rinks
Down deep in the basements in the
Middle of high school, they had to put my face back
On like a kaleidoscope,
And all the meanings of affluence escaped my lips,
And the pretty girls no longer loved me;
But I still want to be the chief of some beautiful little
House,
Like a little country between Spain and France,
And I wish to grow grapes; and more than anything I hope
To see her riding out through the day, this beautiful reason
In no need of any other occupation,
But to enjoy the songs I sing to her, to watch me swordfight
Amazingly with the mailman,
And then to touch her in the copious darkness of our lover’s
Box,
Mobiles and ceiling fans spinning,
Her womb like a roadside garden of tulips my lips attend
Like corpulent and boisterous tourists.