Just Some More Thoughts Poem by Robert Rorabeck

It hurts to bum, and to disappoint them saints:
I’m out of better words, out in the graveyard of disenfranchised
Sports;
And this is early morning: my parents are gone,
Maybe I am singing as I touch myself to your spectral form:
The sky is full of horses runaway from their
Brush-fired barns:
These words are just the simple afterthoughts of more trustworthy
Yarns:
And the day opens in a colorful flood of girls touching themselves,
And touching themselves again:
Later on, if I appreciate, there will be rain clouds and wet paint,
And song birds, and a-mens;
But for now I don’t even want to touch myself, to clown around;
I know that there are prettier houses and your sisters
Are undressing in them- Looking at themselves in mirrors and
Contemplating marriage and aquariums;
But for now I’m really bummed, and the neighborhood of houses
Seem uncharmed,
And the fireworks bag is empty, and I’m really going down:
The cats are burrowing like rabbits underground,
Like homeless men drinking under the overpasses that you step or
Leap over so easily like the object of a fable,
Like a birthstone on display over a long-tongued earth:
And these are just some more thoughts to which you have always
Given birth.