Boudoir's Memory Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Pocket words,
A thimble full of fruit:

The cross is strong and well held still
By the eyes of heavy weight tourists:

I haven’t been to that town for years,
Nor the Spanish, nor the British;

Bu they owned it once,
And I owned it too, and write letters
To its waves through my scars,

And the women who work there serving
Lunch, fluffing bedrooms for little girls:

I have written about them south of them.
I have written about them northwest of them,

But east is the sea and it is too grand to write,
Too verbose in ferality: a thousand legions of cheerleaders
And sororities, and all those flavors of that crush;

They comb there as if trapped in a boudoir’s memory,
And wet and swim in scissor cuts;
They think none at all of me, basined in swells
And caesuras;

And I think I should drive that way and sit and lounge
Just as well as forever where they play;
Or buy a house on a burry mound
Over looking their selky playground;
It is just as well that I do.