Rehearse Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Curious air balloons flatulent over the heads of
My Fair Lady;
They are starring her in a prom of swamps and air-plants;
And there’s a better name for it, where I eat alone,
My private theatre of dead cats the artistic canines
Paste like Christ onto the cactus garden,
Made them perfect saints:
The dogs were as white as bone; the moon was as white as
Dogs,
And the pornographies rested under the rootless trees like
Teardrops- paper dollops, pamphlets for Christmas in
Cars on blocks;
And looking at my friend’s mother knocked me off my horse;
She was mostly naked in her backyard after winter,
And the pool had so many colors it couldn’t decide, drooling
As it did over her body;
And we played while we were still alive:
Seventh period was my time to get drunk at school, to drive
Away and say hello to the sea, the drive back again and choose
My college;
And I am going back again, my cheek courting in drool,
Pretty women virgins to the rag, carrying around the promontories
Of England in their purse;
They didn’t need to wear shoes, but they did;
And even when they’d all dispersed like frantic magpies from the
F$g, I sat at my lunch lake and ate it alone,
Cried as a rehearse.