Even When You Are Not To Be Found Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The city goes home and bifocals in
Its wrathful arcade;
And you can tell that I have been drinking:
I have slept in my clothes for seven years,
Because I didn’t
Want you to know the scars I have since been wearing;
And maybe you lost your virginity as nude
As soft shelled love birds
Out upon the sandpeppered shores of the fresh water
Estuaries;
Maybe even you were snapped at by beatniks,
Maybe you carried the equipment of the band from the
Cars-
And now these pretty words just make you tired;
Maybe you are in love with a great voice, and when
He comes swinging down at the batting cages of your body
In the rudeness of your collar green night,
You don’t even care how far he high tides in you;
And you give out his name like solicitations in a mailbox;
And you come and afterwards you circle the town
Like Zoroastrians for your fairer grandfather’s icecream;
But I still know where the wild figs lay,
Or how I crossed your body with my eyes on its skullduggery:
And I still know where that treasure is buried that
You have never quite found;
And I know how to lay you even when you are not to be found.