Storefronts That Will Never Open Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I’ve been belly up and kissing prehistoria:
I have been failing math and reading children’s novels:
And I haven’t been tasting the tits of her mountains:
I have been keeping lists for canoes and Pegasus,
That she should call me by seven tomorrow,
So I can press my tongue to her wet butterfly and make her moan
All the entrees of her menu:
And feel the ribs that a few other men have felt, while her
Heidi climbs the mountains of her grandfather’s out of work
Alps;
And it all seems to come together, even though I have not,
And the otters slip into a salty knot:
And even though it rhymes, it comes together better than we thought:
This girl I love, Alma- she can never be a housewife:
She is a conqueror herself: she is a bottle rocket and firecracker
And a song bird all rolled together; and I have failed her
By singing these sings out loud and drinking, drinking,
While the airplanes shutter like feral airplanes
Or love letters that she has never needed to open:
This girl I love, while the airplanes sing from the lists of entrepreneurs
Of storefronts that will never open.