Indoor Harvest Poem by Robert Rorabeck

How was your weekend- good,
Especially if you didn’t mind spending it
Outside of my festivals of nothing;
And if it wasn’t for the liquor I just wouldn’t know
What to say anymore,
As I lay like a naked moth underneath the hyperventilating
Tent, like something beautiful unmasked, unfurled:
As the traffic spins and pets the wet paint
Off the billboards, the mascaras of the heavens,
And the lines douse their veins as straight as canals, like
Torpid tears that the blue gills drink, where girls
Such as you lay in deep trances with bicycles;
And the otters swim over you clutching bouquets of orchids
And up to the banks to greet their sunning housewives:
Well, anyways, this is something for you, Alma- I have just
Made, while you had your weekend of family:
Michael’s birthday- a cake of tres leches: but you were
Too lazy to make enchiladas while the deer and the
Foxes played with the metamorphosed kings in their
Suburban glades:
And I waited for you, humming in the outfit of my scars,
Watching the hummingbirds waiting for me to bring them more
Roses out my front door: that you sometimes come to,
Knocking, kissing the lips of my knuckles, letting the sunlight like
An apiary gossiping over your body,
And dripping from your clothes like firing honeys, your
Wayward expressions a venomous ax finding on me a forest;
And blessing you to come in and harvest me indoors.