The Apiary Where I Take Her Last Name Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I remember putting up a tent with the Mexicans who
Hated the fact that I was there:
That I was the boss's son and they were certain that they
Could do a better job without me—
It was just the way it was—anyways, it is manatees not
Mermaids that float in the sea,
And I give all of my poems to a dead woman, just as
The dead surround the shopping malls of the living—
And snakes congregate around the orchards of apples
And honeymoons: I am not blaming anyone—I have
Gone to China and copulated with the offspring of the
Dragon—and it thunders, like the last pages of an exciting
Book—and after the interview, she is coming home—
The apiary where I take her last name and bare her children.