In The Rainstorms Of Wonderful Valentines Poem by Robert Rorabeck

If I wanted you to sing to me underneath the
Mangroves
And kitty-corner to the short skirted tennis courts
With so much zeal as to stop the professionals
From snoring;
If I asked you to play the booby trapped organ,
Or to lick your fingers against the
Underbellies of the airplanes in that airplane house
Which is our sky,
Then maybe you would- all auburn, with gypsum earrings:
Like beautiful stuff trapped in the amber;
And maybe it just wouldn’t be enough for you to
Really love me,
And maybe you were behaving that way just so you could
Sell me things,
Things I would have bought blindly anyways:
And I have an entire house to give to you with gaudy trellises
And a mother and father and teak cabinets:
Maybe there are even now little children running up and
Down the ghostly steps as if a game of my kind of
Dreaming;
And I know all the pine trees are softly whispering hungrily
In their canopy that is smothering the thorny
Graveyards where the bumblebees are perpetually dying,
Giving up in the half darkness which is neither here
Nor there,
Like the premature fading of somber pornographies,
Like nosecones and tiaras made of soft paper that is tearing
In the rainstorms of wonderful valentines.