Nice And Slow Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I write love letters to you,
Because even though I am well sated
In a good and damp lot underneath
An aquamarine tent- I am starving for a woman,
My muse:
I have one or two and they don’t seem to mind;
They just toss their heads back like wild palominos:
They don’t give me the time,
Or the seesaws of their alabaster pride,
And I don’t even have an oven to be good and died-
So the traffic crawls- and the traffic slows,
Cars filled in with girls who throw their heads
Back like palominos,
And the eight o’clock sun is gusting through their
Windows,
Like peeping tom, like an un somnambulant
Inspector of job:
Yeah, I loved her- This I know because my porcelain
Heart cracked in her lucky camel toe;
And she is just as lustrous as an Navajo casino,
Because I have seen her swallow entire armies of
Fashionably plated men,
Her barrettes undone, her haunting head swimming through
Their bayonets,
Accomplishing all of her turbid banquets well on through
Crepuscule,
Placing all her unconquerable bets with the traffic crawling
Nice and slow.