Each Of Their Hair Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I am Briar Rabbit
And you are super sexy,
And I’ve been folding paper,
And my eyeliner doesn’t stream
So I can look straight up at the dusty
Mighty god folded
Over the ceiling fans:
We have six of them in our ceiling fans,
My parents so lucky and so forgotten
From picking
Watermelons and lettuce
And f%cking cotton:
And I have seen you on the bus,
And I have seen you a dripping heroin beneath the
Florida holly,
And you are my poem tonight, even though you are
A dry river bank,
And now I have my own money, so maybe I’ll even have
My own house to farm alone for some years.
Maybe I’ll even have my own wife who will read
Insociantly by the intercostals light dreaming her days
Away in the brewery of more handsome men,
And old teachers have asked me to hand job for them,
And old girlfriends are a year or two old wives,
And rightly I should be a virgin or two since them,
But I’ve been inside almost a dozen holes,
Because of the caustly loneliness,
And E- couldn’t possibly understand,
Because I summitted the mount of the Holy Cross alone,
And now the words are not mine,
And my dogs have wandered off somewhere else,
Because they are so tired of searching for their old master,
And they are limping and soon they must die,
Like the fire my tenebrous fingertips are constantly lighting,
And I am only thinking about one or two women,
And they are so beautiful,
Like stewardesses,
Even though I am not,
And it is not possible that they could be thinking for
So long about me,
Even though the cold wind is blowing forever
Through the forlornly patriotic banners of
Each of their hair.