The Genie Inside Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Alone in the alkaline gutters,
Commuters travelling over us, hurrying over
The places we lie down in the places
That keep to their own shadows—where hobos
Don't have to wake up,
And share fleas with dogs:
In the sideways land, where flitting housewives
Throw discarded books, and traps,
And innuendos—
It is a painting without any sincerity,
A wishing well in a mall of our pubescent where
We drink and drink,
And lie down, far from the lamentations of our
Mothers and fathers. We acknowledge
That we've finally gotten a faithful girl pregnant
But she is still on the other side of the world,
And we are still playing a lottery of
Bottles, swearing to ourselves that we will one
Day find the genie inside.