Ended Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I pour liquor in my car for the last poem of evening:
I have no idea where my mother has gone,
Or why the wind is moaning; but the same old vicissitudes
Have out,
And beautiful women saddle up and ride their ponies:
Just as houses line up for a beautiful woman who is promising
Kisses,
And the sky is filled with runaways who have evaporated,
Who started out through high school but never finished;
And the baseball diamond is red and needing; it is the color of her
Birth stone that she is bleeding;
And she sleeps all day and wakes up in her bar; and she touches the
Burly flesh of the men who control her fires, but she doesn’t have
To drive too far;
And this is the potency of high altitude bouquets drying on her lines,
Like the romances of fish fluttering on her vines;
And she is my venal muse, and she drives through the lushes of her
Environments that I am trying to think up better names for;
And the fires burn beneath her, and my mother runs away:
And the city dries up like coral in the dusty bay:
And she rests her head in the beautiful beds of historical hotels that
Seem so far, far away;
While the eels slither through the remains of her auburn hair
Caught up through the tangles in the sky- And she no longer wonders
If I should ever be her guy;
Because the city basks not so far beneath her, and there is so much variety
That she is happy with the stock by which she can pick and choose.