Daydreaming Of All Your Dark-Eyed Welshmen Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I find it easy to kill little things that
Belong on planets of weeks,
If they are attracted to the light and
Getting in the way of me finding out how
To better suit you;
But you’re just out watching football,
The gentleman’s sport with many colors
And bruises:
I have scars of my own; they will not heal,
Nor are they beautiful,
And I find that I have too many lines to be
Considered immortal,
To many lines to find your hand through
To walk you to the park near the elementary
School in the student ghetto,
To rehash with you how I floated with my
Girlfriend pantomiming what it would be like
To live in the middle-class shadows:
The funny thing was,
I was still thinking about you even then,
Wishing that I was alloyed with a shinier base
For which to suit you- Erin:
Thinking of you even then while you rode the
Locomotive burning coal through all the cloak
And dagger overpasses;
Perhaps daydreaming of all your dark eyed Welsh men,
Knife fighting atop the first class passenger cars.
With their backs turned replaced by the scarred stuntmen-
I know that if I were you, Erin, that’s what I’d be
Daydream of, anyways.