Thirst For Sand Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Lines in unsteady distillations ripple
Fornications halfway out to sea. I can only cry
For help with the few words I know,
And pretty soon no one believes me-
In mass, the words bundle, the traffic drives away
Like red pepper entrails,
The buildings nod like encephalitic gods
Out from which the business men stumble.
I always knew she’d put me on a bus- she’d make
Me crumble to the words I know like a pitch
Of salt, over my shoulder- The lions on the shoulder
Of the road feed and nod off. She drives home from
The schoolyards of work,
Everyday is a spindle of her race, of both man and
Beast. She has a new house like a sharp pig in stucco.
I build a sandcastle every night by the sea,
After the tourists have left from the crummy storms,
Seagulls and little league herons prattle;
And in the morning I awaken effervescing, curling in
Foam and ruins- My elusions melt like cockroaches.
There’s a hole in my bucket,
But I only thirst for sand.