Not Another Mate To Be Found Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Our house moves on wheels, and I’ve been
Drinking without her acknowledgement,
Like Mickey Mouse without any horses:
My mother looks at me, hair as silver as ice-clouds.
When will she be going away,
So I can touch myself. Yes, she is going outside,
To know what little of god, I suppose, as she finds in her
Amusements beside the marriage beds of committed
Roads;
And if I were more beautiful, I would have her looking
Toward me every day,
I would keep all the horses entertained in the valley
In a drive in movie theatre; and I would call her over
With her eyes of some month’s green birthstones,
To entertain her by flexing like the biceps of an orchard,
Or that is just the liquor speaking,
Always howling at this time of the night like a cat on his
Proverbial roof,
Down in my perpetual valley of moving stones, like some
Kind of desecration, the only cars exploded,
The tourists as weary as skeletons,
And not another mate to be found.