Into The Wishingwell Of The Armpits Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Swearing by these mountains that they know their
Paths—as mothers and mothers
Come home tumbling upon mountain bikes—
And the sky is a necklace of pearls above the mine
Shaft—
Eventually I will have to come down from my spying and
Have dinner with you—but for now it is
Taking forever—and my joints hurt and are in need
Of a good oiling—
And every time I look at you, I see that you are looking
Away, and collecting your head into the wishing well
Of the armpits of another god-d@mned
Good man.