Robert Rorabeck Poems

A rhyme, a dime, a talking fool:
I step outside and in the insouciant yard my
Pen*s jewels:
By my lead, my dogs go out and scent the
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There is no subtly, so this is not art,
The pornography of a greeting card can say
I love you as coolly as an apathetic banker,
Thusly I greet you again, like a stranger out
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Going back into Florida no longer
Seems like anything real, but a furtive play
That comes alive between the crowded shadows,
The sun pours down its thespians in a sheen of
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I tried crying for you by the hour,
But you would not listen to me,
A next door conquistador, you awake
Bare-chested and full of rhyme
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You deserve better words than mine,
Angled in soft lies, like prehistoric trout found
In the oily conservation of their brief lives:
I flow upstream for you with all I can,
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I think I would like a house with an orange tree,
And neighbors who never grow old,
And laugh and kiss openly on the patio;
Already retired, now they drink beer and smoke,
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Strangeness of unaccounted numbers slithers
Through the unmowed grass,
Through another day of monsooning summer
Under the mobile of a smiling moon,
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Without music a body is
So alone,
Even with the dogs beside him,
He’s drunken too much caffeine
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Threads disavow with evening,
And rental cops shut down the illusions
Of the roller coasters’ movement,
And no money is exchanged in the park
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