Mark Twain Poem by Robert Rorabeck

In streams of shared unison
You sink your first and yell
Mark Twain.
My lips touch down on your
Visage
Like migrating robins
Taking a break on your
Floating pastures—
They hum and twitter
And take small siphons
From your lips,
Stealing your honey like gasoline
And light off again
As you pirouette like
A cowgirl orchid
Down the fine young stream
As alligators line up
Dark mystery
Like tall toothy gentlemen
Saddling up at the bar,
Their hungry eyes begging
The question of your throat’s
Availability.