On And On Poem by Robert Rorabeck

There are no more birthdays in her eyes,
Because they have opened up a new venture.
Some part of her is still French,
But I cannot tell if it is her upper lip
Or her left elbow when it is resting in the good
Light of a game of chess.
For now, though, the best thing for me to
Do is travel on, perhaps even get married if
I can get by with a prenuptial agreement,
And beat her at the money game, for I had
Been married before but only in agreement with
Judaism, and I was left hanging by the heart strings,
Though I had long since lost the ring she gave
Me from Jerusalem, and what it said.
Even now, there are many faces in books of
People I should know, who maybe I do not even
Want to know, but there is a sad urge about it
As if I was a castigated horse wishing to return
To the stormy herd who had trampled him away.
She, though, is surely leaving now, for it is early
Morning, and time for her to put the key in the
Lock of some classy joint. I don’t even know
What she might be selling, nor if how
She greets the men is true romance or a sales ploy,
But she does greet them that way, time and again.
I should leave her to that business, because
I don’t even know a thing about her,
Except some small part of her is still French,
And on and on.