Two Glasses Of Wine Poem by Robert Rorabeck

After two glasses of wine,
He tells me, the poems get good,
Because the body warms like cuddling,
Like an Indian blanket outside the
Thunderstorm,
The same one they used on their honeymoon,
And a person begins to feel the words
As if coupling with a drawn out woman,
The kind that doesn’t stop nor could you ask
Her to, and the little tinkling of words
Become more than representations of the
Sad facts, become women themselves,
Or whatever you might want
There in your living room like a forest of
Monarch butterflies alive but molting after
Their destinations,
And on their wings the tiny specks of the roads
They took, and the eyes which beheld them
Shyly from behind their uncle’s curtains:
Those things wished to be said, the hesitant poisons,
Spill out as if from an anonymous wound,
And instead of slowly killing, they apologize
And remain there before their author like the
Glimmering proof of evil, and mistyped love,
But at the same time they are coyly beautiful,
Almost like children, but with consecutive glasses
They begin to blur fully, fading some which
Both dulls and multiplies their ineffective splendors,
So one might say before he goes to bed exhausted,
With a sloshing liver,
“These ones aren’t real. Not real at all, ”
But for their time they certainly were,
And they lay there now like lost wanderers
Expecting something more to happen.