Lips To My Cool Shade Poem by Robert Rorabeck

My father gives me direction and a couple dollars
For lunch:
We sell salted coelacanth and Indian corn by the dozen
Bunch:
And I think of you and hold my hand over my heart
And chant to you;
When the roach coach comes for lunch, I spend five
Dollars,
And sit and relax and drink Mountain Dew,
And I can almost hear my dogs and who you must be
Making love with-
I am celibate and horded- I am very much Nicola
Tesla in Colorado Springs or somewhere else:
I am making invention by stealing your blue prints,
By lifting your skirts and peeking inside,
While you just go about you f%cking hay ride:
What will you be for Halloween:
Won’t you be my orange tree? Won’t you be my shade,
Won’t you by my Spanish harlot and with your
Cadavers escalading through the bases of marmalade,
Climb up my swinging husk and put your
Lips to my cool shade.