This At 9: 43 Or Whatever Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I finish my second book of CS Lewis today-
Arizona time, and there’s flying saucers in the sky:
They are sailing ships in my glass almost out of rum
And cayenne pepper which keeps me awake,
To pay the bills or jerk off;
And the sky is empty, but it is almost blue.
When I first got my dog, I’d tied it under the rusting trailer
From which we’d sell Christmas trees:
But I didn’t name him- I haven’t named any of my dogs,
Because I am not a master: I am not a Christian,
And I get all my books ten for a dollar at the thrift store,
And my aunt is dead,
And my grandfather is dead, and there are black men making
Tough decisions,
And nothing belongs to me-
Now I can feel my breath like a storm,
And I have scars, and soon I will be selling fireworks in
New Mexico- Digressing,
A few years ago a Mormon made fun of my complexion
After I’d already gotten my Masters degree at 24
Or whenever,
She used to live on University, but she never loved me;
Still, how the waves are beautifully breaking,
Even some years ago- Back to the blonde Mormon-
His first son was a stillborn, now look at me-
Today is Christmas, or whenever,
And the sky is turning, there is silver on the tree,
And soon I’ll be setting up for fireworks in New Mexico,
Amanda Breen, Erin Adamson,
Do I have to keep giving out Christian names-
Is anyone listening to me:
The sky is scarred, the work is hard,
And I can barely even breathe- I’ve got a car,
And soon I’ll drive East of here: I’ll have a beer, or
Two or three: I’m Arthur Rimbaud, or his shadow-
I’ll drink lemonade or beer- I’ll toast the housewives and their
Class, I’ll drink to them and buy a house which will make
Me impossible to see,
Because I’ve had enough, life is rough, I’ve been abandoned
By the sea-
But that’s all there is, and I am drunk,
And this is the end of me.