So Real Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Abigail,
You were Jordan’s sister, back in junior high and
High school again;
And I just lost my last poem about you,
But I am not giving up-
The way you didn’t dance for me, but I pretended
That you were topless across the smooth bricks of that
Fabulously crenellated pool;
And where you are now, but the perfect vestibule of that
Narcissism,
Still one of the first restaurants opening up,
Graduating when our high school was still young and never
Going to college, never believing in all those things
That ruin a pretty soul:
If I could find you this day and steal you from your
Tiresomely Jewish husband, I already have enough money to
Buy us a pretty little house outright in the berg;
It will be like there was nothing else after Atari;
It will be like Clinton is still president or that I never ran
Away to Michigan:
I will never have to cut my wrist for Sharon,
Abigail, you could be my simpler truth, and right away disavow
These lines:
I want to look you up and take you bare-chested to the fair,
And give daughters to you and your grateful dead,
Because that is the music you love,
And we could spend our weekends molesting anemones in the Keys,
And having nothing less or more to do with the rest of these
Conquistadors,
Abigail- I like your music and I think your husband is a bore,
And I’m all about starting over:
Abigail, Abigail, terrapin, hare: Come back with me to Wellington
And I will take you there,
Spending your evenings tiding up in the same living room I
Remember masturbating in with your little brother;
Let me use your autumn tresses for a bomb shelter, and we can
Practice and lip sink for Halloween,
Abigail, Abigail because you are the prettiness of everything
That didn’t have to go away, Abigail:
You are Patrick Swayze,
You are dirty dancing:
You are the perfect Jewess, Abigail and I have entire
Brown bags of fireworks for you,
And names for our children that will bring us back to before
Things had to become so awful and so real.