The Steroidal Harrumphs Of Weight-Lifting Saraphim Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Regards, is how you should end it,
And not even attempt leaning over to press her
Lips for verification that you are not a poltergeist,
Apoplectic, working with hurricanes to tear down
The rows of breadcrumb housings,
The nemesis to real estate; For she is busy
At the water cooler, her eyes on well dressed
Coworkers, the light bubbles; it is effluvious,
And better words could not describe her pagan
Magnetisms. You would need a doctor to hypnotize
You, and a shrink to analyze the deadness of your mind.
The infomercials come ablaze way before breakfast,
But, in short, they will neither make you stronger,
Nor more appealing. Such as it is, the park is all yours
When the moon pulls the chains on the swings,
And your face is cooled and hooded in the embrace
Of mumbling maples. The cops should drive by
Patrolling, but do not fear them, because you are
Sadder than a criminal, and they do not cherish you.
Go about your cryptic séance, the looming of pinwheels
In a rainless collage with the nest of hungry hairless birds;
For you have seen her photographs, and the full-busted
Amnesias of the wellness in her sport. Hang up that
Hat, and sit in the quieted ennui of the dysfunctional class.
Tomorrow might become a better afternoon, but don’t
Suppose it will have anything to do with her low
Mortgaged beauty; they are already inside her and comfortable,
Her lips are stung with barbs of Errol Flynn- Yes,
There will be better lines than these, perfumed hiccups
That would have undressed her if she had saved her virginity
For the quips of lonely professor; but not now,
For how she beams, sure to become a grandmother strung
To the limbs of the fraying jockeys, or the steroidal
Harrumphs of weight-lifting seraphim.