The Habitat For False Romance Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Somber glass ditches such as these
Deserve no illumination;
They just keep going on and on as if
In some fairyland used for persistent
Fertilization,
But what are they growing that hasn’t been
Eaten before,
And where are the beautiful girls who should
Be out sailing, and winnowing between the rows,
And waiting to show their stuff
To the priceless fabriche gentlemen: but they
Are not waiting for the girls;
They must have fallen off their horses or some
Walls, or down some wells at the tops of suave
Marble hills, if they’ve been really luck;
And all that is here are the blown glass swells,
Like a very intrinsic planet or mobile,
For an infant of a species which can never be explained
Much less thought about; but if there is a
Sense of heartbreak out on this empty, folded lot,
It is only because this was a creation for a callous bud;
She did not spring for it, as she had promised:
She didn’t even blush; and hasn’t even come to see the
Amusement of these denoting amusements,
But there is another line for her a little further on,
And an entire retinue of our moons we have no business
Speaking of, though they are each quite solitary in the
Perfections of their pure grade elements;
But eventually it all must be smashed, and undone,
For the habitat for false romance which isn’t even taken
Out for the flings of holidays is a breathless place,
As she puts her lips and hangs her prices for the beefy
Pinwheels and chimes boys with numbers, bicycles and
Impressive biceps picked up at the drugstore at the
Price of a penny each, and so easily amuse her.