Your Husband's Everydays Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Cracking farts who applaud Australia,
But I will never be the star of that seafaring
Movie:
If I even will be, O’, I will have my bit part:
I will think of immaculate teachers,
The cars they drive,
And their apple-rind farts, given to them like
Jazz by their most beautiful pets,
But when I’s think of you it make’s me wets,
Like wet paints drying on a wall
Nearer the houses nearer the sea, the old movie
Theatres,
The hills of Spain,
And red wagons moving softly down hills,
And coffins filled with little girls
In curls,
The locomotion’s of haunted planes,
And little girls again in red wagons going down
Hills to their sweet professions
Like gifts of holidays,
And to you again, and it makes me wish to say
Your name,
Like the secret senses tucked away in the deaf
Dumb brain that kicks up its heels
And lights out after the world is buried,
As you think of me while you make love to all of
Your husband’s everydays.