The Ferris Wheels I Am Never Allowed To See Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Stranded through the years of my drunken
Hypoluxo,
You still might think me a little boy playing in the
Graveyards of my mothers
Chest,
Even after all of the caterpillars have gone to sleep and
Awakened in the hyper-luxury,
Flying away all dressed up as if for weddings of
Who they really are;
And all if this the failure of me not really being able to
Speak to you,
To whisper to the pillowy recesses of the opposite sex,
That I know who you are,
Even if you have children who think the sky is a
Merry-go-round,
Or that the best of who I was failed in the Catholic
Universities of Saint Louis;
But I bought a house in which I can freely drink liquor in
Not to be persecuted over the thrown bones
Of despotic Indians,
While all of my love becomes a cannibal eating the heart
Of me,
While you look up your eyes devouring the Ferris Wheels
That I am never allowed to see.