Just The Type Of Creature Poem by Robert Rorabeck

My scars are a pretty mix of roads and intercourse.
Where they are going there are the new creations of lights
On the boulevard,
Coming like an almost blind horizon of lighthouses;
And then you are almost there, like the first thing in the
Anti-crepuscule of the university, waking up before books
In the mists of coed fields always paradoxically mowed,
The sweet green beds I hope you remember,
The art classes, the rent of venal lovers, the left over casserole
Your mother sent you that you would never eat,
Your father the last casualty of that war, and you just a busty
Half-breed in a place you never belonged; and now you are
Still trying to do the thing of another princess, and I can’t
Blame you: That you killed me and left me for dead on the bus
Of our last fieldtrip. Resurrected by the unbelievable spikenard
Of the truant alligators, and suckled back to health in the theme-parks
Of poltergeist orchards, I can still see by the light of the moon,
And I’d hate to find you, but isn’t that the way I am just going,
Over the ice-cold planets who aren’t even real, even over yards of
Pets and empty parking lots. Soon I will be crenellating the airy sisters
Over your room, but you will never look up, because even though you
Are so beautiful you are just the type of creature who is never
Allowed to do that.