For More Than One Week Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Busted up over the hedgerows of paramours trying
To fend for themselves,
Shivering in their fleeceless shoulders:
Without a good or a bad king, and no sign of heritage or
Its loot:
They mime the green fountains of cypress,
Swaying for a little while in disbelief- Only going for so
Many more flirtations
Until they are hung out to dry, limp as shaven lambs across
The creek,
Where red throated minnows kiss their buttocks repeatedly,
Stamping their heliotropic promises the size of
Newborn ants to the flaxenness of overturned caesuras
Who have never given them assurance that they will be there
For more than one week.