But Another Lie Poem by Robert Rorabeck

You are burning- you are a tip of gold,
And I am just a lie in a nest,
A lie of alcohol,
And there are swings:
Even in Colorado there are swings,
And old forts and forget-me-nots that young children
Can attend,
Wishful with pockets full of buffalo nickels;
And I wish I knew the proper names
For things,
I wish I had a father,
And that time might slip like your hair over and down
Your puckish ears,
Slip like wine into lips while quiet enfolds before
It finds me,
Your flesh quiet and refusing to be tremulous-
Your thoughts kindled in
The downs of so many years in soft sheets,
Hooked to your name, just like that other man:
Wish that I could be him,
And believe for awhile in the beautiful lies
I make up about you rather than having
To go outside,
To go to school- to anywhere without you;
And the mountains have a name for you,
But to describe it would be but another lie.