The Few Things I Have Yet To Say Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Stumbling through a drunken verdure, I am at it again,
Scribbling up at death as he shows up with the dinner guests:
These words like the pits of songs hoping to last for
A little while long,
Rejected letters sent by eyes that were first soft and then fell away,
Made love to other men; nor did they mind the rain when the squires
Canned the overabundance of things;
And if you don’t like it, there is only so much time before the friction
Of two bodies finally lets off the business of love making,
Of making children, and all that is left is the ever constant traffic which
Still seems to echo, echo, while she beats at her forlorn
Breast like a mannequin in a store bought window, emancipated,
And entering the state of being in which she realizes that she can do
The best for herself; and that she is the most beautiful of all these
Simulacrum, even if it is only one or two things that she is capable of
Doing:
She does them until night goes away, and then she yawns and stretches
Like a puppy dog sapling;
Even she gets heady, already realizing in her makeup, the absolute beauty
Of the few things I have yet to say.