Just What I Do Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Hard to think of something to consider.
I am getting drunker and drunker,
And the stain glass I frame you in grows into a
Church,
And the airplanes come down and pray
Where cartoons grave on cereal Saturday mornings
And this is just what I do
To get outside and mow my fair portion of the lawn:
This is what I do for the girl with
Watercolored eyes when there is nothing
Better on television,
And I am left with nothing better to do than to
Type these mud daubed love letters,
And to wait alone in my zoo:
To swing for a little while, to pass the habit,
To pretend to have the potency to stave off killer bees
And death,
And too look you straight in your eyes and to caracole
The death with life rings of your initials:
I jump through hoops for you,
While the traffic sings,
And burns like fearless dogs,
Like candles in my own beard:
This is just what I do.