Escribiendo Telemundo Poem by Robert Rorabeck

My mother’s tear rags are all but used up,
Father is at the auction buying used horses,
But the South Florida Fair isn’t here for another
Month: I won’t be around to flip around then:
I will be back under her shadow where the aspens
Crowd in a cool harem, where my dogs leap and
Lick my face, showing that they defer to my
Dominance, and I feed them double-cheese burgers
In kind:
Now, my scars grow like briars and thistles,
And the traffic bustles with the insouciant whim
Of gallantly saturated capitalism: I read a book by
Randy Wayne Write and try to fit in, a grown up boy’s
Wet dream, la de da, and other notes that take the
Afternoon to plink down the keys, to disappear into
Basalt and a lime grove which only existed many yesterdays:
They have cleaned up Military Trail, and put the working
Girls out of business, but I have some sort of rash
Making vulgar continents on my belly, and I’m trying
To reserve my savings: I gather nickels and buy a
Chocolate bar for dinner, just like Bukowski,
Just like the old kraut but not as exacting; and the traffic
Rushes back and forth disproving Presocratic philosophies:
I don’t care. I’ve only had five bottles of rum all year,
And I still might think of her more than she does of me,
But what holistic remedies enter me like slender ghosts serve
My mealtimes of writing well; and still, there are people
Going their wheres on their withers, and my ex-lover polishes
Her super-saturated lawyer with the talent of an industrial
Paint brush, while I have a manuscript in print she will never
Read, and such irony lays fat and salty upon the curling
Tongues of heedless waves as they are introduced to the
Soundlessness of her shore: hushed there, they dissolve
At her touch, and disappear forever like everyone,
Like this poem.