The Fantasies Of His Yesterdays Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The conquistadors could never survive,
Because we are all just men
Making love to anonymous women,
Selling Christmas trees;
And I hoped to look into your eyes, but you
Were with your better men,
Or married with a hypnotic badge,
Fully into exegesis and not in need of
A stranger’s bouquets,
So I kept doing all that I could do,
Getting drunk and masturbating like the sun
With worse and worse eye sight
Trying to leap lightly forward, but never
Escaping the fantasies of his yesterdays.