Where Your Gold Is Buried Poem by Robert Rorabeck

No honey on the lake of concrete:
A yard of concrete costs a buck, and you can
Cover all of the beautiful vineyard
For a penny,
And the entire hills will roll like a marble
Arcade,
But I still wish I was in Colorado,
Stealing a beautiful mother,
Going to get laid;
And I loved- I loved a bird.
I loved a salamander, so long I loved:
Atop the apexes of rotting houses,
I loved,
Alone: Mermaids and naked creatures undressed
Of exoskeletons,
Screaming for the pot and without guns or
Belt buckles;
And nothing but the night is still waiting for me,
And the swings are waiting to take me nearer
The pine trees’ ankles,
While a housewife in South Africa loves me,
And I her:
And I love the gentle tears you might shed if you
Ever thought to climb high enough to get to
Where I’ve been,
Sharon,
Riding the narrow gauge backs of slender trains,
Sharon,
Because you are the only good muse I know,
And I want to make love to you inside blue tents,
While hiding a lamp close to your
Choreographed backside as it leaps like a fairytale,
Because I am mystified by every river of your being,
And I most earnestly wish to know
Where your gold is buried.