To Make Room For Themselves Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Employing myself in the graffiti of those hands,
I toss this world, and make pearl-glue:
I sew into the carport where the sailboats
Lie emasculated and jealous;
And I hold out until I can drive again to visit those
Plush houses of red velvet,
The girls tattooed from Spain, or from the discothèque,
Up and like pretty juniper from their hostels,
Trying to burn wet logs while their knees are chattering,
Waiting for some roof to stop moving,
Or stop whispering of the traffic that drives its
Apathetic ribbons;
And the mountains are just as long and uneven as an
Impossibly solvable serpent,
The candles entrained in a mask of cold-hearted daycare;
And I’ve been singing to them of my wealth,
To make myself feel as beautiful as their tremulous shadows,
Like all the beasts trapped in the surf awaiting their
Time,
When all they wanted was something hardly empirical,
Pushing the ghosts from the red pits of junked cars,
Displacing the shucked bodies of yesterday’s crustaceans to make
Room for themselves tonight.