The Hundred Proof Blueness Poem by Robert Rorabeck

When we come again I will have learned to
Groom myself:
I will either be another crocodile, tearless,
With the hands of disserving pirates in my lips;
Or your lion,
Singing Broadway even though I have never
Seen New York;
Though I do not know all the names of your children,
I imagine where you walk far outside on
Shell rock,
The airplanes still some kind of illusion,
Though you should be serving drinks high upon them,
Leaping like cowboys taming bulls:
All the fools you loved while I was busy making out with
Spain;
And this is just a commentary diligent into the unintelligible
Reasons of the feral rain;
And your children they are like orange blossoms:
Peter Pan comes and visits them from the open lips of
Your double wide,
And they sail straight up to the first star of morning;
While you winnow your arms, yawning and step outside,
Masturbate like a fiddle over my lines:
Drool in sweet piddles into the earth, probably atop the sweet
Shell of an insouciant tortoise;
And I am not to blame, that I love you and I wish for you
The same:
Your body hiding the secret pearls of every girl:
But you are the one and only, a constellation with her ears
Pierced curing on Sundays into the fat bottomed doors of
Any Church;
And I know your name, but not how you stamp or color yourself:
Your toes have remained the same color since Christmas,
But you aren’t troubled that your boys haven’t come down:
They are having too much fun,
In that fat, fat cloud that can only be perceived dredging the
Hundred proof blueness above your one and only town.