The Bottle Of My Empty Soul Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I want you again, the bottle of my empty soul,
Of my penniless art—
A few words given to an empty theatre,
Everyone else outside and enjoying
The nude daylight given
To them,
Spread eagle in kisses of gladness—
These sorrowful words kept indoors,
Torn apart and missing the bulk of their
Dictionary:
Still, they can hear airplanes going upwards in
The sky,
The ethereal zoetrope the insatiable foxes
Leap towards—and think, triaged,
That this is what they want as well—
As women as beautiful as mermaids drive themselves
Around,
Selling what they have to sell.