In The High Meadows Of Their Oh So Special Wars Poem by Robert Rorabeck

How am I going to stop my heart head on
From picking all of these flowers,
In believing in Diana as the beautiful Bellefontaine
Of these woods;
Oh, the pain of sweet numbers, the euphoria of never
Having to go to math class again,
Just playing half a truant out beside the lunch trucks,
Panhandling for Diana’s sweet return,
Hoping for her handouts without really knowing who
She is,
Believing in who she is, whoever she is, and her
Daughter, her daughter swimming in a nude sea
Biting her lip and hoping for pearls;
And I want to take both of them out to a really great lobster
Dinner and afterwards
Dinner rolls and drum rolls and we can go out into the street
And horses, and wild horses, like the flickering tongues
Of sunlight on the road;
And more rum! And then Shetland ponies and orange groves,
And we are almost all the way to the west coast,
And maybe I wont have anymore scars come morning;
And Sharon, and Sharon; and great causes, and dolphins,
And the word is just a bonfire burning up all of my origami,
And there is a smile on my face,
Because my hands are finally sleeping, and I have survived the
War and realized that we are all out of star fruit, and Erin,
Sweet, Sweet, sweet, sweet Erin doesn’t love me;
But she has never loved anybody; she didn’t even love the mailman
As he came up stepping beside her and kissed the mezuzah she didn’t
Even have a thought that she shouldn’t have;
And now the planes are touching down again,
And they are bringing home all the soldiers, like Sharon’s
Father, like Sharon’s father, who should have been wildflowers
Burning in the high meadows of their oh so special wars.