Like Sun Dogs Around Her Spotless Eyes Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I get too drunk to be anything but pitiful:
To eat anything but macaroni casserole,
To think of any place but Colorado,
And the girl there, or the married woman in her
Heightening degree of espionage
Who I can love for so long through the winter’s
Snow:
I can just sit out in her front yard like a marble
Bust,
And lose bits of myself until I am entirely hole
And made the wisp of a quill who flutters
Perpetually around the tin flag of her corrugated
Mailbox:
And I could be anywhere, but I prefer this
Strange weather to the desert.
The professors, they don’t give a darn,
They just eat their wordy dessert: you know:
All the frosting on the cake, and how Sharon, that
Girl,
That hyperbole must have tasted the cake with her
Husband,
And if she still thinks of the sweetness of that day,
And where it was,
Or the many boys who came before her one man,
And me off to the side,
Weeping in the cafeteria before going to repose in the
Heliotrope under the school bus.
Maybe she only loves the feel of her hands caressing
Through wet clay.
I don’t know- this is only my poem while the snow
Flakes fall heavy on her borderline,
And where she goes right now I am hard to care,
Only that she might remember my hand
And lead me there, like a strange friend,
A homeless acquaintance that she might take in
And molest if only with the somber disturbances,
Like the shadows of dogged satellites put off under the
Beautiful mascara which makes its penumbra like
Sun dogs around her spotless eyes.