Their More Familiar Men Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Making tomfoolery with wet paint
Every midnight,
And I have to ask myself if that’s what I am
Trying to do now,
Like an awful twin, the shadow of the sun:
While houses are going under,
And the sea is rising like your best man under
Your skirts,
And maybe you are either auburn or dun.
And you have a school bus named after you,
And even the Grand Canyon isn’t anymore
Beautiful,
But easier to get down to the very meat of:
And when your eyes look up from your books,
What do you care
To think up, the strange astrology which dictates
To the pillow of your drugs;
And I have two names for you, like a snowflake
Who has a strange twin,
And the both of you are waiting for me to open
The door and let you in,
To make an ice rink of my living room
When I am homeless, and I don’t have a daughter;
And I want your daughter even while
The stars are moving away,
As if Hollywood was the new occidental,
Because our real-estate is expanding,
Even as the wooden boys get to enjoy the bonfires of
Mortality:
They get to eat and gossip at restaurants on their father’s
Birthday,
And they enjoy going down like that,
Like a fish caught on a line being given some slack for
Awhile,
As if the galaxies were all of a sudden returning
Like a reunited sorority,
And there in the blue foyer sharing eager gossip
Before setting down and really getting into the meat of
The constant graveyards where they are sure to
Dig up some dirt on all of their more familiar men.