Dinner In The Ocean Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Feed me my dinner from the haunted table,
And I will see your eyes when they open,
A book of poetry which drinks light, but your lips
When they speak, they do not return what is put in them,
Like broken vending machines,
Molds of plastic lions and teal penguins they keep
At the zoo,
And the remote control boats in their contained pond,
Where there are no alligators,
But only shortly trimmed grasses about the concrete;
Their crews belong on the top of wedding cakes,
Then you should say to me as the light fails,
What you really mean, if it is in you,
Allow me to bring this utensil between my teeth,
And consume the hollow points, the way the spigots go
Spitting out amidst the lawns of clean workers,
The tenderly obsessed, the town of hazy borders,
Thus, unlike them, let me know how you are wounded,
And the proper way to leave you alone,
For we will be parting soon out amidst the midgets of
Twilight, back into our slender rooms, our bricks of good
Will, where I see you across the table like a murdered ocean,
Your eyes open like a book of poems.