In The House Where No Housewives Live Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Keeping the routines of the dead,
I have beautiful women in bloom in my head;
They are the only color in my gutted soul,
But they are not real,
Not real, these spring-time gals;
And they are dancing and counting all the goods
They’ve stole from my mythological patio,
And some of them are real good at figuring out
The shared origins for our stories,
But they keep that to themselves; and their love,
Like the waves, always comes back to them;
They’ve kept me in so long, that I can’t hardly go out
And look for more real, less affected girls:
I haven’t been to barbeques or graveyards in so long,
I haven’t seen the empirical sea, any evidences
Of god in nature- I haven’t built my house in the woods,
Chopped wood near a lake, blistered my fingers on
Wild huckleberries: These girls, they keep me jobless,
They give me enough time to go to the convenient store
To buy chocolate milk and two donuts;
They are gossiping like heady butterflies over my scars,
But it is their liquor which sustains my consumptive soul;
But it is not real,
The animals howl- fed but wanting something else,
And thus we go, in the house where no housewives love.