On A Cheek Of The Moon Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Through the lips of the stars who are like vases,
Who drink through the night while all of
The cats are slinking away after the automobiles,
And the imaginations of the strangers are captivated by
The other motivations that cannot contain us in our
Bedrooms,
As the ambulances go around, chasing the fees of werewolves—
And we fall in love with the roses pressed against
Our tombstones—until there is no more room for us,
Not even in the raindropp stolen into an eye of
A witch—
And the thieves come around barefooted, collecting
Those things that do not belong to them—
And the students of the soulless grottos gather
In the gymnasiums to play basketball—
And the rainstorms carry over—filling themselves with
The holes of another love—and I wait for you,
Getting inebriated in my living room,
Hoping for the resolution of a good novel—
For the sun to paint my fingerprints, as if developing
A theft, as he comes out to give a peck on the cheek of the moon.