In The Middle Of Making Love To All Of Them Poem by Robert Rorabeck

You were never supposed to sleep with me,
Erin: Where would the trick of impossibility be in that,
To come into my wigwam all cheery and
Rose colored
Like a snake too big for the highway;
But I was supposed to lean on over myself in the middle of
The night,
And pick a few strings upon a lyre or a harp,
Strings that had no meaning except for a dog’s howl of
Emotion,
Strung and fibrillating the guts of the sky, of both the old
Gods and demigods,
The little virgins who died too young dreaming of just
Your weekends scrubbing naked in the bathtub:
My art, if any, was supposed to die for you this way, a lonely
Truant caught smoking in man eating vegetation,
A little girl who paints a picture too dark to discern for you;
And this is the sweet thing,
The scribble of haiku in the meaningless rainstorm:
The way one boy sits forever alone sitting in the grass that the
Worms know and love,
Waiting for the bus that will never come around again,
Because it has already brought home to you all the boys you
Should want,
And you are even now in the middle of making love to all of them.