Faithless Home Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I can’t go back home-
My father is waiting to tell me what
I’m worth:
The sun is setting, watercolor on the
Sullen earth:
I am worth one racing horse,
And I am scarred; I can work like a dog,
But what about my balls to be entrepreneurial?
And I just want to write a poem,
One poem that shouldn’t burn:
An irrefutable, beautiful term that should
Banish any other words for how you’ve
Perceived the city’s world:
Everything you had to say like a painful joke:
I want to roll up and smoke every green wave,
Every misplaced love:
I want a poem to be beautiful, my epitaph into
The vulgarities who multiplexed ascend down
From this drooling tip:
This end, but here is what I’ve had to say for it,
Like bricks in the mausoleum,
And here the people are, professional tourisms,
Taking their cars and lovers
To get washed and manicured.