To Do With Her Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Burning in the cold spittoons, the mountains rise
Up to the f%cking moons, and I have been betrayed again:
The mailman has fathered my earliest sun while
I was late to home again: The rabbit went down on his fairy,
The little girl has shrunken again;
And my words are just the whimpering of my loneliness after
My tireless wife has hit the town again: If she were my wife,
And not another man’s worry:
I want this to be the story that I am remembered for:
I want to be an American legend, and I am in a hurry:
And the night spills out semiprecious from its quarry: and the
Planet Mercury is even nearer to my love:
And I haven’t worn a bathing suit in so long, and the girl I loved
Has a husband; and I have never betted on dogs, though I think
That I should have:
And the knights have gone down into the traffic, empty handed
From the mountain, and if my goddess was nearer toward me,
Wouldn’t she just love another more endearing man:
And what about the apple trees uphill from my uncle’s house in
Michigan: what about that professor who is the head of his department:
I think he was the one who started all of this:
I think his backyard is the garden of Eden, and I am doing nothing:
I am just a runaway: a runaway from the sunniest states in the union,
And the girl in the movie, the girl I love, well, actually
I have never been beautiful enough to have had anything to do with
Her.