Shooting Off Along His Own Measly Way Poem by Robert Rorabeck

You’ve read what I’ve written to you:
How insignificantly I blush,
How my scars disappear readily in the rumors
Of moonlight;
And you don’t even worry that I go to the library
To masturbate,
Rather than bring anymore bouquets to your check
Out line which is already chockfull
Of the beefier men you prefer;
And my lines are callow, and crass, and they don’t
Even have as many days left as my grandfather,
Who has water in his lungs, as I would have liquors,
Should I be continuing on these trails for
Even one more day:
For you are a beautiful woman, but taken from
Appealing angles, or the meatier left to starve,
Then all your race is beautiful or can become that way
By the makeup of your craft;
And mammalian, you are really lacking as you can only suckle
One or two young at a time;
And you are neither like a fire-engine nor a werewolf,
Though it should be said in the simplicity of our American
World,
We will forever make good neighbors; and my poems compliment
Your wine, or visa versa;
And looking at the stars together, laid off our bicycles and
The hearty scuppernongs pealed off my professor’s linked fence,
We might deem for awhile to share a god
Who seems to be very much alive, gambling with his engines
Along the avenues of sweet penumbra;
But should he ever look down, he will figure us just as we were,
Two insignificants in love,
Before shooting off along his own measly way.