Perfectly Round Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Juvenile swings underneath the careless
Pines
With another thing doing,
And biding its time:
I want to love you- I want to masturbate
And pet your oily coat.
I want to bite your lip and feel the un struck
Meat of your inner thigh,
Like a lobster after it has done screaming,
And skipping school,
And dreaming:
I want to put you there on the springs
And pull your legs up like pedals,
Or ride you like a bicycle,
Like a butterfly over full Vietnam;
And I wonder what your father had seen,
Or thinks of you
Now after he is gone;
And I wonder if you can hear me even here,
Whispering my body language,
Writing you in my hand-signaling psalm,
While airplanes stroke the night
Like matches,
And you lay down for your socially galvanized
Stud,
Another man who could never say this to you,
Scooping my flowers of guts,
Chumming the wake of infinite regrets,
As if we were alone together in a room that was
Un regrettably perfect,
And perfectly round.