The Budding Gravity Of Our Drinking Fountain Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Returned to the pinioned basins
Emaciated with silver, I recreate myself into something
I cannot remember,
Someone who I have always wanted, like a four door
Suburbia
With pretty children and a rich young pool. To be the
Baby sister’s Indian giver,
To disremember the golden rule: To sit up all night on the
Influential roof and drink to myself, thinking that I could never
Get any higher:
To fornicate with my eyes with my wife. To go to eat with
Her for dinner,
To disremember who the conquistadors impacted underneath the
Bellies of the canals and rivers,
And to call the leaping humiliations my gods, to give up on
Snowflakes, and to hurry on the migrations of butterflies and
Their mimics:
To live in the estuaries bled from a stuck high school.
To have married the very woman I remember singing like Io
So distant and so near, trapped in the budding gravity of our
Drinking fountain.