His Own Wish Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Beauty is recluse: it goes far back into its boudoir;
And I have never seen beauty, just her conjunction, and her pierced
Nose, which I overuse;
And the night is in delectable, just as if I am selling oranges
Along the boulevard in Miami
Back struck against the holocaust museum,
And this is something very serious but all the same cannot be proved;
And now I will have a little house, and tiny, tiny wishes that
Will take me all the way to her;
But she is so expensive- She is fleeting, and she is the beauty jeweled
Into a body that is even more beautiful, but dying;
And, if I had been but a politician: or, say, a successful lawyer,
Then in the stillborn courts of her brethren I would have been beautiful:
I would have been all strung out and beautiful,
But now I will never speak to her again; and all I am good for is tarnishing
The grapefruit of her nonexistent harem; but who am I writing this
For tonight, for this certain isn’t a fable, nor do I wish her for my harem;
But I am parroting the rhymes of a popular gentleman that
Disappeared before me decades before this;
And this is just the industrious goldfish making laps in his little bowl,
Biding his time, and awaiting his own wish.