His Forgotten Creation Poem by Robert Rorabeck

His Forgotten Creation



If I try to find you now
Serving the wanderers the old road brings,
Where Chaucer left off and died
From want of your lips,
I will only end up back here
Alone and wounded in my room,
Crying out loud to the four walls,
The bitter end of this continent-
When I last saw you,
Weren’t you entrenched in the coital exhibit
Near the beautiful dead boy
With blue stockings.
Carefully, you were pronouncing
Again and again
The name of a real man
Making sure to get it as right
As he was getting you:
And that was the most singular
Devilish sort of survival right off the
Way where the pilgrims were moving,
Kicking up dust to Canterbury.
And you failed to make it into the cut,
I suppose, because the old poet was entirely jealous,
That he wanted you ousted from
The history he was distilling in his immortal lines.
Thus reducing your golden paladin into
The plebian knight on the roam,
And you to nothing more than that moan
From the lascivious wind
Recreationally laying bare-assed,
Inhaled like caffeine snuff by the proboscis
Of the Wife of Bath;
But, unlike the greater tradesman,
I could not deny that I wished for a piece
Of such a wanton lust,
The naked geometry arcing in the pines;
Thus along the way,
I wrote these few lines,
Scratching my foot in the dust,
Though I could not stop to guard you for all time,
And already the wind he cast your identity with,
Was picking up and claiming you
As his forgotten creation.

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Robert Rorabeck

Robert Rorabeck

Berrien Springs
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