Familiar Song Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Familiar Song



My great middle-class evil
Going out to lunch
And dinner dates,
Spending your monies wisely,
Apathetic to my scars
And how beautifully they might make me,
In a far away and lonely light
Exhumed from the disastrous water-
Drenched proms;
You have to strain your neck to look
Down on me- How told,
I am apart from you,
I am diminished and scribbling out the directions
To the golden chalice you keep
Pell-mell discombobulated in the backseats of
Your cars;
And you have so many children
And apostrophes you don’t know how to use them,
So you just sling them like Jackson Pollock
And somehow they turn out all-right;
And you have horses, but they are all on poles,
And all your dreams you have to wait for in lines
In vast amusement parks,
And in every aspect they cost you a dollar two,
Even for the common everyday hot-dog;
And it all ads up
When I have relocated to a sea banished of
Corpulent tourisms,
When the eager-black turtles are undoing your
Sandcastles and making great black clutches to
Inseminate themselves, and bare gurgling broods
Next to the weave of her salty gown;
And all these things are going into her
And simultaneously away from you,
And I follow them like an unwashed French boy following
Wolves;
And they call her the whale-sea,
And no matter what you say you can not develop
Into her; in fact, she may be coming into your neighborhood,
Sweeping it clean with the nudity of
Her pantheistic sororities,
And then how might you cry for me looking for
A door to knock from those vengeful caesuras;
But somehow I cannot hear you,
Because this tends to happen through the great
Carelessness of time;
And you have already driven away from this
Song,
And are now enjoying ice-cream under a
Fairy-light
With equal distance to the church and park,
And airplanes go leaping over your heads like
Strange, overzealous folkloric angels,
None of them laden with led balls or witchcraft
While I am fantasying in a tree you can’t remember
Where the little ripples grow and the sad hummingbirds
Dip,
Where I am in tattered raiment, drinking of beautiful
Women you couldn’t possibly understand; who, sadly,
Couldn’t possibly know me.

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Robert Rorabeck

Robert Rorabeck

Berrien Springs
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