The Mysterious Instruments I Need To Survive Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The Mysterious Instruments I Need To Survive



Your brown skin encages your wet butterfly:
While your legs pump the gas, and you are migrating to your
Place of work and back home again
To your children:
Maybe I will make love to you in the morning before
Breakfast,
Before I have to drive down to Miami to sell fireworks:
When I have already promised everything I have ever owned
To please you,
Or everything that I have ever been:
The mailman licking your stamps like rain pressing the highways
In their petticoats,
Giving your home flowers that embarrass you,
And besos for your lips when our coworkers have gone home to
Sleep,
And my fingers curl up the blinds of your ribs, like blind hikers
Searching for the angels of your throat:
There they are singing, Alma,
And playing the mysterious instruments I need to survive.

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Robert Rorabeck

Robert Rorabeck

Berrien Springs
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