Filling In Blanks Poem by Robert Rorabeck

You don’t dance
Or read to me anymore;
And I am all grown up,
While upstairs there is a distant female
Voice saying hello,
But you are probably working and
Lucky for it,
Because of all your great stuff
And easy bounce;
While those twisted men, those men like
I am,
Will soon lose everything:
At the track or somewhere close,
And not beckoned in will crawl into gutters
And into ditches,
Brothers to the crocodiles,
And look up the skirts of sweet young
Tornadoes,
As the country dries up and turns into
Kansas, a toothless fairytale,
Where even the most renowned pugilists
Are out of breath from so many hapless blows,
And young wives go weeping towards
Empty swings,
And entire flocks of houses are left abandoned,
Heartless and naked,
And green recedes like a salt-licked tide,
And bones look pretty thrown bleached and
Saturnine through such influential happenstance;
And if I were to find you there,
And we both got out of our cars and approached,
Shyly across the callous lane
Above the flea markets of silent permanence,
What could I say to you knowing
Even then you would not read my poems;
But instead look forward to that balding sea,
For even though dying her love was indifferent
To unconditional soul.