The Natural Catastrophe Of My Very Soul Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I think of you,
And write of you all the time;
And it isn’t fare,
This immense disease of my immortal dysfunction:
Its like being with a warm family who’s
Never there,
So you are left praying beneath the ceiling fans
Who are always
turning
Away on strangely tremulous fieldtrips and never
Rescuing you:
And after all of this school, and the sweaty of
Sweet little bodies,
I am still only left with the masturbating/
Recreations-/+*
Of a gray haired truant:
And you have cats and dogs and a little girl who
Looks up to you highlighted by those mountains
You have no business with,
Except you are selling your wines,
Using your most familiar instruments:
I don’t know how many casual boys loved you like this,
Like obsessing over your best friend’s sister sunbathing
Topless enriched in the sparks of
Downed power lines,
But how many of them can you say have ever done this;
And I am still waiting for you to reciprocate,
And give me a bag of goldfish as some reward,
While the sky shoots its angels,
And you play your faithful sports, shooting across the
Clear blue day,
Just a small manifestation of the natural catastrophe of
My very soul.