Entire Apple Orchards Poem by Robert Rorabeck

In the middle of high school
I used to leave classrooms—I used to leave
Right out of school
And flop and drink right beside the waves—
Seahorses teaming from some anonymous
Father's liquor cabinets—
The sun a stream of pugilists, beating me until
I was stinking of nocturnal perfume:
What a way to live—
Little children at my door—entire apple orchards:
Now I am a teacher—
The sky cries in the afternoon on weekends
While I drink—
The eyes of Dr. TJ Eckleburg are in the room.
My Mexican uncle just sold his truck
And his son and nephews are over celebrating.