Draft Dodgers Of Midnight Poem by Robert Rorabeck

She doesn’t care,
The weathers I’ve made for
Her,
The fragile sun I’ve flaked from
The hallways of
The derelict high school.

Out in my high yard,
Masturbating, watching traffic through
Cyprus crooks,

Bet she’s off with her newest of new boys;
Out in the orchard at picking time
With the handsome eyed Mexicans
And step ladders;

And the windows are wicked
Always looking in;
And she is filled with original sin.