It Never Seems To Get Cold Poem by Robert Rorabeck

It Never Seems To Get Cold



Thoughts of fickle roses and
Credit card machines-
A police dog’s bite mark in my
Left forearm,
New scars along my left cheek
That might finally heal underground;
And this very instant iguanas
Released by ten year old hurricanes
Are sunning themselves on the
Banks of canals all across
South Florida;
They must be good to eat,
And I sing the blues
And practice dirges in the dark;
The palmettos down here first cut up
And then decorate with your light,
But you never look up,
And yet even with the sun further away
It never seems to get cold.

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Robert Rorabeck

Robert Rorabeck

Berrien Springs
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