Jogging Down That Busy Way Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Traffic speaks some kind of wishy-washy language,
As if its not sure it wants to go to work,
Maybe it just wants to hang on the bell all day,
Or sniff flowers; and what are you doing?
Powdered, taking gifts from a long line of gentlemen,
Like the queen of England; And I am writing poems
To you, but I haven’t made a name for myself, so
What are they worth; and you parents are south,
Beneath you in the middle-class playground:
Will you ever return to it, and let its humidity lick you
As you jog,
Swirl like tongues around your ankles and knobs:
Will you ever think of me, no longer perfect,
No longer privileged to be near you, or just down the
Road pullulating near the wildlife habitats, showing my
Christ sized heart to all the tourists going to feed the
Lions;
And why do I do this, when outside they are cleaning
The streets: They are making places, destinations to go
To, extract and fulfill a lively hood of blue-collared
Saints, bric-a-brac- Angels and chopsticks on a shelf over
Couch and cushions. Who worships the sun anymore?
Who dares to look at the sun and go blind? If I ever look
At you again, I will drink you like prohibition moonshine,
Like good old fashioned high school truancy;
And you will have to stand there and take it, posing as you
Interpret my eyes, blushing and dewed in your
Short skirted grottoes: Like a flower to me softly swayed,
Pulled back by the deep snouted lips of a bear and sniffed:
And whether you like it or not, I will drink my fill should
Ever I see you again jogging down that busy way.