Beneath The Infinite Trees Poem by Robert Rorabeck

A little bit of rum with my grape juice and
I’m feeling fine: I am a child actor with
So many girlfriends,
And paper snowflakes falling on my death scene.
My grandmother smiles,
There are stars on the Aristotelian popcorn
Behind my ceiling fan,
Plastic stewardesses on my folded airplanes,
A cat purring in my lap, little brown bunnies in the forest of
Cactus in mother’s rock garden,
Cars on blocks chock full of nudie magazines;
And in the yard, isn’t it Easter, and the snakes are
Laying colored eggs:
Girls who just learned to walk with painted nails
Are going to get their photographs with
Roman Polanski- Most important of all the it-girl
Is giving me falacio, trying to tell me the truth
But her mouth is full,
And I smile and pat her head- It feels as if I’ve eaten
A steak dinner, or written something very good,
And my soul is buzzing around its feeder, jumping out of
A body too vibrant to understand,
And there are all these tourists who have left off the foot ball
Game to come and see me next door to the otters eating
Their clams off the naked breasts and abdomens of
Housewives fresh from the mall,
All of us in a house so full that we know we should never
Be alone, even as the ghosts sing with the throats of empty
Swings down the hillside out front of our trail her home
Beneath the infinite trees.