Granaries Of The Sky Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Compassionate will be my new
University;
And I will sing of flowers by which I
Cannot explain,
And I will lie alone with make-believe cats
And read William-Carlos Williams:
I will toast my dead aunt,
And bight my lip over the alive one-
And even in the afternoon rains the traffic
Will come, this way and that;
And if my house should be beautiful enough
Why then look at the healthy ivy on the trellises
Going upwards above the clouds like a
Commercial fairy-tale, taking its notions by
Mark Twain: I will love great men more silently
That I did before,
But will be just as removed from the rest of the country,
And still as disabilitied by my patriotism for the
Beautiful bodies of girls who could never understand,
Bartenders,
Bartenders, by their auburn light I’ve made the world
Of good polished wood, but they haven’t set down the
Glasses of their job and given me a kiss in, Oh!
Who knows how long- They love other, sweeter men,
Who’ve never spoken to them by the body-prints of
Airplanes, sent their love letters on the clean pressed
Lingerie of flight attendants:
That I should do this, and worship in the long since paved
Rock garden where the dogs killed the lucky rabbit,
And I do,
And I sit with her on the easy roof and we wait
For the sky to turn pink and bring to us the revelry of
The sea’s combing obsessions,
As she still does everyday for me.