Holiday Mythologies Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I feel like Hercules under this tent.
I finger housewives while they give me that
Eye. I swear in Spanish: La verga-
I sell Christmas trees to Catholics, and
What not. Sometimes they want a crèche
Hung under their eyes like a mobile for a colicing
Child. I abide, and at night I wander the moguls
And estuaries they have decorated in, her state of
Pretty egrets: the streets flow like constables
Our perambulating, spinning their sticks and batons:
When I see Jews, I don’t talk to them, but they still
Circle around me and try to carry on. I whistle silly
Pietas, and when I drive, I roll planets up and down my
Forearms. Comets buzz, and before bed I buy strawberry
Icecream and crackerjacks and eat in the hedgerows with
The never-settling ants while the last of the customers
Leave, and the chainsaws stop their whicker mastications.....
When the parlays are over, when the poetry is read,
I drink a few sips of rum, listen to China Forbes sing Dosvedanya;
Pedro puts on a pseudo-orgasms for his own amusement:
I drink out of a special cup I’ve stole from a man I’ve
Never met: he might be dead. Still, I am careful not to write
In stanzas, but I have nothing on Sylvia Plathe, who will
Live forever for 32 yrs, but I can only give this this,
Which I see you already have.