In My Dreams Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I wasn’t invited to her wedding.
I cast myself out of the insouciant hotel room
And waited for the stars
To hold up like taxis for gangsters and their
Mob,
And I made where horses ran as snowflakes
And picked up gas and speed:
It was some intelligent forecast,
Like a fieldtrip I can hardly remember to the art
Museum where I cut my teeth on
All the naked ladies
And horses;
But Sharon wasn’t there, she never was,
But across the empirical fairy tales of the canal,
And yet she is always ready to lay down:
She is always worthwhile to write about,
And there is nothing wrong with doing it.
She can run for miles,
And I won’t give up. Sharon is my new immortality,
My Olympic swingset tucked beneath the
Rockies,
And I don’t think her husband would mind,
Knowing just how rich of a car this girl is.
I don’t know how he got her- I don’t know anything,
Except that I was more beautiful,
And that I was enveloped in a playground of dates
And figs,
And vines nuzzling beside her daughter her breast
Like a gas tank,
Tucking in to the tannin revealed by the open lips
Of areola Sharon has no choice but
To give to me
All that she ever had or never thought of
In my dreams.