Treasure Island

Robert Rorabeck

(04/10/1978 / Berrien Springs)

So Amputated In The Black and White of An Out of Date Newspaper


I can’t use a dime to call you anymore,
So I look at you red-eyed in photographs,
And your face looks like the tanned rainstorm of
A pretty girl’s misplaced secret desires.
Why are you so sad, Erin- Is it because you are
The last of your kind, and everyone else has failed
You. Aliens in their garden of hotdogs and baseball
Parks- Then you are like me, oh sad thing,
What a vermilion holocaust you give the dusk
When you stand out in your front yard flaunting like
A tenebrous ornament for the homeless black men,
Or whoever else comes around,
As the wayward misfits of your neighborhood are
Always courting the comfortable sound of your
Doorbells-
But you don’t read me anymore, because last time
You thought of me, it was by a different name; and
I don’t know who you love even though seven years
Ago I used to jog around you hoping to soup up some
Kind of homeopathic love potion; and even again,
Later on in a month or two I might be selling things for
Holidays around your old neighborhood, but I wouldn’t
Think to call you, because you wouldn’t love me
How I look so amputated in the black and white of an
Out of date newspaper- My body is not for you, but
For the lips of a coffin which must disembark from my
Favorite canal at the edge of the smoking glades,
Though if you would come out for me then and cheer me
On with a few beers, and a chorus of chin chin,
It would make for a better ending to this sad young thing.

Submitted: Thursday, September 03, 2009

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