Country Fair Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Another put on:
The queen of the fetishes gave me
A shape-changing mask,
So that I might see her undress,
Spending years of luxury in the hem of
The boudoir of swamp, on the cusp of
A cheep suburbia megalomaniacs and
Alzheimer’s daughter go to fornicate after
Class; and their are potions and spells
In the woods, and cheeky barmaids who
Serve you the fermented spits of trees,
The excitement of spreading roots, the
Merry-go-rounds of cypress with red corsages;
Her armpits the little hairy boats, your
Tongue the man singing on the gondola.
A purple city spinning, and panhandlers glittering
Your lover’s eye with custom made poetries,
And tiny erections not meant to be too imposing.
Men who never talk,
And salt-water flats where they feed you
Taffy ladled from the brine, and upstairs beds
That are forever knocking, inquiring of the
Faceless maiden’s forever moaning,
Tiny nebulas kept in lockets, French-kisses
Over the telephone, and electric ponies running
On tightrope overhead; she has written her phone number
In lipstick for every boy who has attended,
And play on the swings which overlap her glossy
Canals, and the seesaws which swap spit with
The exertions of long distance runners; and I can see
It all looking up from my windshield of the red oldsmobile
In the carnival’s parking lot, her rosaried bosom
The nimbus over the line of constrictive trees, a greenish
Girdle; Even in the rain the colors turn laughing,
As she catches every glorious peck of the awakening horizon,
And I have to take my head off and exchange it
To keep from crying.