Make My Hapless Stance Poem by Robert Rorabeck

And it could go on forever like this:
This long dilapidated greeting hall dressed in red:
Ripe but dying,
Like the womb of the lady you’d expect:
Watermelons, cantaloupes left for too long inland
Too far away from the sea:
Overly sweet, not enough salt: The spumes racehorses
Give as they crush ovoid luck:
The metamorphosis of weekend flies,
The quick job: The beer was supposed to cost two
Dollars, ended up costing one:
The chaos next to the baseball stadium- The family
Of Walruses getting rich: pull the pedals off a flower
To see who she loves,
But the springtime isn’t necessary: She doesn’t love me:
Even if she thinks she love me for the greeting cards
Of far away; If she saw me, she wouldn’t love me:
I am not her sailor, consumptive up on dry docks:
I am not her artists serving the self mutilation of their
Sunflower senses:
I loved this, I loved this, and that’s so easy to write,
And as the traffic dies like grandmothers,
I’ll pullulate myself tonight; hands hummingbirds in
A warming desert where I no longer live with
My parents: I dehydrating cash, I’m losing my senses:
Soon the railroad tracks will denote my way like straight
Edge river banks, unto the séance of palm trees,
Outside your whitewashed foyer, the chandelier hanging
I can remember that will calm me, and I’ll
Make my hapless stance.