The Ghostly Beach Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Lay down the body where it can feel
My heat,
Because I can be successful at construction:
Her house is open like a glass cage,
Her lips are the luggage of our eviction:
I am drunk, but I will not die-
Tonight, the moon is still where it must be,
The sea is exchanging spit with the beach-
They are making love and then showering,
And pissing off my girlfriend,
Because her bikini is all wet, and not much good,
But for foreplay,
And the evidence of her beauty:
Nostalgically, those were better times,
Times of sex and candy,
Before Military Trail went under construction,
Bought out and tore down my parents;
But, really, things are never different, just exchanged:
And I am only partway intelligent, ’
Completed by the cheapest bid,
And will make do by kissing her mother’s lips,
And eating breakfast in the sooty escapade,
Sitting beside the auctioneers of expensive cars:
I keep on saying one day I will move out,
Buy a cheap house near the sea, listen to her panting
Forty miles away, even if she doesn’t care, and
Eats fried chicken and shops at the Gainesville mall.
No longer a student, what will she do now?
A groupie of the middle class highway, she will carry
Their guitars and drum sets for them, give them head,
Ride them- Whatever is the most plausible exercise-
Its not my scene, but my dogs give me tongue,
And each wave ignites the palate of the opulent speech,
The drift my soul goes into like a seedy tourist,
When my lips have touched too much rum,
And the conquistadors are glowing like a parade of forgotten
Truth in a seesawing bolero along the marriage processions
Of the ghostly beach.