The Store Poem by Robert Rorabeck

If I have traveled up to where the jasmine believes
Where the bachelors live on roads that never
Quite get you home,
The alligator twisted from the breath of their masters,
Where all of the Indians have evaporated or
Melted into the virulence of sky:
Then I should offer my mortal coils to the slugs of
That great washing machine;
And not having to look twice to know that Diana is making
Love to her homeless gods,
Throw myself over that old Roman wall, to swim with
Dolphins, to become myself the sacrifice of mercury
Like Alice to the lips of her young cult:
They will pick me up and worship me just like a car they’ve
Wanted to put out:
And then you know, Erin, I will be but an echo to the footsteps
Of your bridal shower; and when you move over the earth,
You will tickle my calloused soul,
And you will tramp my holes like grapes; and my wishes for
You will remain so tremulous as to keep needing your
Delicious secret and soul,
And I will keep playing baseball for you out and blackeyed
After high school; and it will do me no good,
For the otter will be cracking his greedy shells and making
A mess all over your bared breasts, while the citrus somehow
Flowers into orchids,
And oranges so round and perfect as if I’d known you,
You can see and taste at the store.