I Guess I Will Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Fermenting yachts you yawl all day
Back and forth atop the red packed clay-
Little girls in tremulous laces,
Little older girls with stainless steel braces:
And the traffic moves, and the traffic yawls-
The socially elite go to hangman’s balls:
And I love you- And I love you the way the
Feral child loves the woods,
And scribbles and masturbates and doesn’t
Know he is no good;
And my father has so many horses, like fish,
Like cars, like Christmas ribbons,
And the sky is so wide it yawls- and you don’t
Know so many things- so many things it’s true,
But in your bright room spinning the crèches
From the satellite’s loom,
I spill my guts for you and cry over something that
Isn’t real,
And the roller-rinks are displaced, and the traffic
Yawls- and the whole thing moves the persistent
Tortoise’s pace;
And I throw entire ballrooms of pennies into wishing
Well,
And each wish is to have you, so I guess I will.