The Beds That You Can Be Sure Are Very Real Poem by Robert Rorabeck

It is getting too late for beer,
Or another ribald,
But I still have these things inside of
Me,
And the movies sure are swell even if
They are meaningless-
Like your eyes so far away and yet
Haunting me with the zoetrope
Dancing underneath your lashes like
Bamboo strung out from the
Silver feet of practicing samurai-
So I want to say your name,
Even if you are with so many children
And red bottles:
You should be a nursery teacher all stuck
Up and steaming in that crèche between
Your mountains’ bosoms,
With the tourists sopping about and eating
So much ice-cream
But never any books:
I just wish that you’d think of me once or
Twice as you bath and touch yourself,
And say my name in the shelter where I
Slide my words gently in,
Banishing the notions of mortality,
And taking you across my shoulders above the
Tree lines of spoken words,
Where esplanades float free of color,
Though sometimes blue and unsuspecting like
The special theater of bucks leaping
As they are being watched by an incandescent
Audience of winged and presumptuous
Deity,
Weeping until they burn and you tumble
Across the river like a fable that has lost any since
Of purpose,
The little light coming out of you and into your
Hand like an industrious stewardess,
When you body settles and begins to float
Back down into the beds that you can
Be sure are very real.