Friendly Mountains Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I smell like the liquor of an insouciant troubadour;
And this is the way I’ve been going out,
Gummy eyed, aroused, smiling like some terribly
Amateur amphibian,
Wanting to breath forever as I was going down on
Her, scuba-diving through the pylons and to her
Rich corals;
And now it is so cold outside as to hobble horses,
And the dumps are all frozen,
The cormorants and egrets of gray herons are shaking in
Their boots;
And Nichole or someone is grabbing their other’s body
Tightly,
And closing their eyes to imagine the passions of stock
Cars;
And Erin is in her knickerbockers caves, flashing shadows
For the sun,
Making believe that her world is real and always for the best,
While the rest of the Florida is dressed up in another
Color of green,
Even its Pegasus’s are green and plural and they can take you
All the way up over the cover girls all tootsie across the
Nose cones of fat gutted airplanes;
And I live in a little house that is always struggling to float
Upwards like balloons through dreams.
Wanting to see you house and swim to it like the lucky fish
In its golden stream,
And while away there making love, two houses making love
In a honeymoon of forbidden neighborhoods beneath your
Friendly mountains.