Our Own Gods And Patron Saints Poem by Robert Rorabeck

What have I done,
But haven’t looked her in the eye;
If she is a beautiful woman, she doesn’t
Care,
But makes love to others of her kind in
The gibbous pool;
And they are under the cloth of deciduous
Coitus-
If I have good friends anymore,
I don’t know- There are still girls in
High school, skipping- skipping,
Crossing chalk with flesh,
A sorority of lippy ankle bracelets- where they go
I am asleep under indigo blocks,
The unused motors of adulterous housewives-
In the green space, we all have our own gods
And patron saints-
Maybe she is in Oregon (or Washington) , homeopathic in time;
What fruit is she plucking,
What ghosts I don’t know, but dogs and budded gardens
Lips of obese flowers jeweled with bumble bees;
She’s lost a lover like a good leg,
But she is still exploring. What does she do,
But dress this pretty thought in the pathos of army jackets,
Somehow underdone in the crenulations of old
Photographs; and I would like to shake her hand just
To get up close for awhile to deny what coffins I haven’t
Seen by her famous senses,
But if I confided this to her I would be afraid it
Would just be another thing she wouldn’t understand.