The Words I Send To You Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I thought it would be a pleasure to
Meet another connoisseur of Latin poetry,
Except for the fact that he was
From Venezuela and born
To go down to school that way;
But all it meant was that I wasn’t
As precious as I thought,
So I got drunk and swam with my friends,
Pedro and my infinitely better
Brother in law, Evan:
We played darts until ten thirty,
Right when the bartender was getting ready
To come onto her shift,
But it was her old, old number,
Which was a good thing; and now it is
Seven thirty in the morning,
And I’m just as gone as a love sick unicorn.
I go outside and the traffic watches me
Like an insouciant and obese tiger,
While I want to stroke myself.
I count the money and remember the flowers
I sent you,
Just like all the words I send to you that you
Cannot use.