Half An Artist Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I look so troubled with ringlets which
Make like hungry mouths of little birds,
Or knots of wood around my eyes;
And is that why you are going, my pantomiming
Love,
Exiting the revolving stage, leaving the
Audience in such a hush, never to reveal again
Your burnished areolas like sand dollars which
Marked you as the half cousin of the mermaid
Topless at the biker bar somewhat inland
On the southeast coast of Florida?
I spread my lips and imbibe the poison which
I must drink to expel the memory of you,
Like a German translation, like a slight holocaust
In sexy lingerie; but it’s just pulp fiction-
Over eager, I’ve begun digging up the roots of
The dragon’s teeth Cadmus planted before his friends
Were fully formed and riotous,
And so it is with you: Even with all these scars,
Battle wounds, truancy badges which should send you
Whistling at me from out the bus while you head home
Towards the zoo,
I never learned to wait until the rains had gone to unpackage
The dozen roses,
To sit them like a resting vagabond next to the
Mewing kitten up the cinderblocks of your steps;
Both of us wanting in and milk,
and so I am only half the artist,
The spotty hullabaloo, the conquistador out of armor
Easily masticated by the greater blue beastly things;
Only semi published in half aware fits.
My house is sold, and I can see you through the window,
How that giant of the man has you all unclothed and folded
Up in him;
But I am still dreamily swimming like a dazzled fish in its
Living room bowl, thinking that this is the entire ocean,
And your eyes such heavens to gaze and delight upon.