In-Between The Hours Poem by Robert Rorabeck

You tell yourself you
Are a special case,
When you bloom by your
Own hand after midnight—
Giving yourself the satisfied
Present of bouquets
The audience on the plateau
Throws at your feet
To seed the earth—
After the applause,
You can grow quiet
Because your heart is satisfied,
The same satiation of any animal
Between its grazing.
With your eyes closed
Like stores on Sundays
You soon shove off in your
Bed to Elysium’s Fields where
Diana’s hemlock maidens
Blow you overpowering kisses
From the sidelines of the
Football field,
To land like wet minnows
Upon your premodona cheeks
Cheering you until
Just around 8 a.m.,
When the sun slams like a
Bulldozer through the
Glass door
And without even a prayer
Before you wake up from the
Sports centers of Mount Olympus,
Your bachelor bones rise
Into the routine of the living mausoleum
Resting at the bottom of the atmosphere’s ocean,
And you dress yourself for
Mortal combat to the cheers of
Spectators lining the cliffs,
Hoping to see you or your
Opponent brutally defeated.