Outside The Sphere Of My Influence Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Worlds spume, like orgasms
Or bouquets,
And faux beauties pirouette on the
Displayed palettes like books,
Like dance floors;
And even as the cars drive, blue,
Or red, or green:
And supermarkets are open,
Where hungry old people shoplift outside
The foreclosures of the everglades,
And the sun puts their bald or hoary
Scalps on display meandering through the scalding
Parking lot like hot liquorish,
I am left wondering why I am doing this again,
Why I can’t ride for myself- Why it must go on,
The futile attempts, the passivity of each
Elongated war sinking with the timely seas-
What for, because her eyes have never yet displayed
To me the green Burbank of her breathy city,
Or the areolas which are seashells mounted on her breasts,
Because all my songs are better sung to girls already vanquished
Than for the lips and senses of the ones who are yet
Busily here, going shopping,
And getting perms- Kissing the unbruised lips of those
Boys and things already on display,
Who have made themselves readily available to their
Lives and limbs,
And attracted to their jockeying gravities they fall forwards,
Diving in flumes of and the needs of salty cataracts.
They could go on and on forever I think,
Outside the sphere of my influence.