The Long Slow Syrup Of A Stare Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I can go out today, and I can drive a car:
I can say many things to the wind blowing there over my car:
I can put my eyes on the world like fruit on a table,
Go mad or stay mundane;
But the world will just know me as I ought to be to him,
Transoms of windows of chicken coops:
The yards the esplanades that go up to the front doors of houses
In their colonies,
The sure fits, the sorbets: And this morning I got down on my
Knees and at least lit the pilot light in my new houses,
So the gas burns
The light house: I watched another man take a woman through his
Door last night,
And he turned and looked at me with the long slow syrup of
A stare,
But she never once turned to look at me- she held his hand as
He took her somewhere.