My Foremost Muse Poem by Robert Rorabeck

When Pablo Neruda shows up, I think again
That you are reading me,
Soft brown eyes across all the scrolls of my
Nakedness,
Even as the buzzards turn out for their hoary meats
That caracole everyway into the juvenile fields
Of your lost town,
Where even still the vagabonding male children
Play all over you,
As you collect their merry instruments like golden
Honey in
The clefts of your warm basins, that my voyages
Will never know,
Because they have forgotten the need to steal
Those taboos,
Even as the light of your bedroom homeopathically
Diadem all the pretty creatures of
Disney World,
And you lie down again absentmindedly in the heat strokes
Of your perpetually beautiful fugue;
But do not say now that I have forgotten you to go off
Climbing in the wet throats of Colorado, who turn into
Substantive graveyards in a few months;
Yes, do not expect that I have forgotten you apathetic appreciations,
Even though you are most certainly not my foremost muse.