Robert Rorabeck Poems

In the middle of the mechanic’s summer,
Defeated by the upper presumptions,
I wait for snow;
No longer liberal, I get drunk at air shows,
...

Hat tricks burn the air over the erstwhile celebration;
Where the little boys are sleeping with blotchy coats,
The bouquets of fluidic clitorises of red hibiscus,
Reveal the deep quieted organs beneath the ripped denim;
...

Against the borderline,
I try for her pulse, warmth to my jaundiced cheek;
She is still alive,
But it is so dark from where they are fleeing,
...

The scoundrel should pay that off for you.
He gave you that perfect teethed smile,
His alibi,
And then left you in the dreary parking lot
...

Reindeer are stepping deeper in the bitter moss,
Mindless of the little fingers of blue hypnosis;
Clutching the smooth stones of the swaying west,
Not even the natives remember, as they hunt,
...

The sun sets gently in the backyard of suburbia,
The pools glisten like diamonds scattered in the grass;
These mortgaged heirlooms smelling of chlorine
And the children’s inflated laughter;
...

Is this the place to set in my ways,
The bungalow for a bachelor and his laughing dogs;
To sit and watch the sallow sun rise and fall
In my anonymous poverty;
...

Staring at the sun,
Cheap books populate the eyes of minors
Run away from home;
Long haired latchkeys of the color-blind foundation,
...

So who is calling you now in the tangled
Tinfoil trees?
No one,
...

Better walls at night seal the pigeons in the stars.
They walk into the sunset, into the waves, and the deep sea.
They prick their heals on the clefts of sunken war ships,
The dead dreams of dreary emperors,
...