Robert Rorabeck

Veteran Poet - 1,893 Points (04/10/1978 / Berrien Springs)

If He Isn'T Immortal - Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Getting fat, driving up to windows too far past
Crepuscule,
Beginning to disbelieve in French-kisses just as
Much as important mail:
Now if there is only vanity, at least I can say that
When I will wake up it will be to work in
The garden of Eden:
That’s what this place really is, with sports stars
And Guatemalans and prostitutes and whores:
Grandmothers softly tucked away in their graveyards,
It having been so long since I touched the flesh
Of their hands as I have raised the tin-foil flag on
Some mailbox,
And these words I use can never justify the alcohol
The unsteady means by which I use to get here,
To stand out front of her door along with the kittens she
Would rather use for sacrifices;
There are two silhouettes through the portcullises of
That silly little house,
And Erin is in love in Gainesville with a man who plays
A guitar,
And god is barefoot in the palmettos his feet in the stigmata
Of freshly cut coral,
And the corral snake is milking his wrist, because d$mn-it
If he isn’t immortal, and he has nothing left to lose.


Comments about If He Isn'T Immortal by Robert Rorabeck

There is no comment submitted by members..



Read this poem in other languages

This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.

I would like to translate this poem »

word flags

What do you think this poem is about?



Poem Submitted: Monday, January 25, 2010



[Report Error]