Just Good For Lying Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I’ve wanted to sacrifice for you,
Let fingers see-saw across your neck
Where the tiny silver cross in dangling,
A curse for vampires,
Or a virgin taunt:
It has its own pink cave that reverberates
To your band’s excitement;
And I’ve wanted to swing in the highest arcs
For you,
To pluck little muggy birds from their nests
As far as my fingers can reach;
To pluck legumes for the landscape’s
Palms, that sway and bend with late
Afternoon traffic;
To defame the crèche moldering out
In the crumbling tar of the Church’s hip:
To become a truant,
Far a field from the turn-about,
A high holy thief for you who makes entire
Long days into weekends;
Who has seen the womb of silk worms,
And each hex in a bleeding comb;

But don’t you listen to me,
Because I am not really good at sports;
And my shoes don’t fit,
And its been so long since I’ve seen any real
Lions, those better seafaring men who spit
Their plugs and grin like sharp metal
On the grind for your joints:
Oh well,
The sea is going, and its time to get up or
Go to bed- In fact, everything must be going.
We are going to climb mount Vesuvius today,
To light our cigars off fuses from her bosom,
To fry some eggs,
To tweak our mustaches and fix our
Kid cloves for these photographs; but look at me now, dear,
As I must be lying- I’d dig up entire graveyards for
You, and say that airplanes were shiny love birds
Going so far that they are just as passionately migratory-
Wouldn’t I- Just wouldn’t I dear,
Or am I just good for lying?