He Who Should Never, Ever Cry Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I can tell now that everything is fine,
Because you’ve left the porch light on while you’ve
Stooped that sweet youngish boy,
While I was out jogging the golf course pretending I could
Be a major professor;
Or out breathless upon the steeper slopes of scree,
While he was under your cottage cheese blouse, fumbling
With pink fingernails of the presents of your crenulated
Flesh;
And I had to take my car to the carwash, and then for a checkup,
As the tortoises stared at me dull-eyed, hiccupped:
I bought you a plush green teddy bear once for Valentines day:
Do you still have him in some corner of your newly
Cornered house behind the gate of your fabricated community-
This isn’t something I think much about:
I stomp my boots- I zigheil, which is easy to do from Pluto
Without being lampshaded by all your anonymous ancestors:
Look girl,
I actually made it further in school than you, and that’s because
In evening my phallus expels and greedily eats all the best orchids
Laid out as offerings by all the under-aged girls;
And even scarred, you were no competition, and I would not
Wear your ring: You rode your bicycle while I jogged,
And it was an easy thing: Other girls looked through the Venetian blinds
While I masturbated- It was no special thing,
And even now I think of swimming away; I wait to hear from
Some literary agent as I ejaculate, as I spume,
And the airships trundle in herds across the unbanished skies:
And the football players throw their games,
And I am the ever constant alligator eating the blue gills in the canal
Behind your house waiting for you to bare your inevitable
Children: I am he who should never, ever cry.