Olga's Guitar Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The green fields are empty and metropolitan,
And I am getting paid to be here with my temples
Bandaged,
Hoping there will be echoes, or her face in the moon:
The monks chant, “C0cktease, ” and orgasm the lovely
Avalanche, thus the mountains unclothe,
And my mother finds me dead, or just in a faint;
She uses the store-bought bouquet to resurrect me,
The donkey to remove the stone,
The stick to break me, or send me further along, because
My peers are still preening and they are joining Catholic
Mass with the prom; I go wearing scuba gear;
She went in a thong. When we brushed together, we moaned
Like little kids putting on, until I was blinded and put in
The wind tunnel by the nurse; This was Christmas, a curse,
And we walked halfway to France looking for Olga’s guitar;
Everyone was drunk on new years, but I remained a virgin
Eating grapes on the train, the opposite window reflecting
The side of my face,
And the hills were dusty and clayed and smelled of dead poets,
And dogs who’d never eaten a meal howled and grew into men
Who grew domesticated and worked the field,
Until they got the juices out of her, and married her daughter;
Thus, became rich, and spoke in whispers of little boys leaping
Their fields,
And when she bent down, she showed her bosom, and they
Thought this most generous, and went out night barefooted and danced
Alone for her beneath her muddy window, where she looked down,
Slipping out a breast which cried down to them;
In this they were leavened and rose
Up and caught her around and undressed above the house,
And bathed kissing in the moon’s penumbra, the dogs in the cellar
Howling that they too had once been men,
Though by morning their masters had them generously fed.