The Adulations Of Her Tactile Ballrooms Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I see the weathervanes rippling like old women
Over the top mast of a house I’ve never lived
In,
And it occurs to me my words are flowers I’ve never
Smelled.
Reoccurring, amputated from a forest where
The rich sororities sing;
And I am just a runaway, like a sailor who keeps
On wanting to drown just so he can see one last time
The vibrant, off-giving light of
Whatever lighthouse is nearest his busy hand;
And the dogs are on the road.
The rattlesnakes pullulate in the ditches with the magician’s
Rabbits
Who dream even while they are being eaten of making love
With his dwarfish assistant,
And rubbing up against her snow white skin,
While she makes the tender eyes of a used car salesmen-
Until everything that I have never done quite right
Really gets blown out of proportion,
And they gain tails as they fireball over birthday parties,
Becoming more and more real as they quickly disappear over
The adulations of her tactile ballrooms.