Upon The Midway Of The Midwest Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Balancing on this dowel,
Lined up beside the likeliest men
In the middle of a rickety midway
In some Midwest,
I could be a songbird if I
Shaved. Coughing blood,
Little girls, or daughters of bankrupt
Pioneers, line up because they
Can win prizes by shooting out
My heart. What a situation my
Hunger has gotten me into, not having
Considered my I.Q. Is 130,
And not the right tool for this
Desired immortality; when other men,
Better endowed can come by and
Knock me from this perch, and set up
Shop without breaking a sweat.
Unbuttoning their collar, and spreading
Polyester lapels, displaying desirably
Plush hearts openly ululating,
Catching the attentions of daughters ad
Their grandmothers who might
Spend all day there laughing until
He has won a pinkish marble bust which
Should valiantly grin for ages after
I have packed up and jaunted further on,
Wayward and anonymously starving for my next meal.