Kissing Your Dirty Mouth Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I give more words, like an overdose:
We use shovels to raise the dead, cheap
Eucharist. Mother is looking at me again,
With those eyes like robin’s eggs,
The little fragile promises who get sick
In the rain. I am doing it again, using
Pronouns to try and make love to you,
But it is so vague, and I have too many
Scars to be in a reality show, but enjoy
The insides of cars, well air-conditioned,
The conduits flow, the bourgeoisie make
Dinner dates, read stock markets quotes,
Like rhyme schemes: I knew where you
Would be, even when I stared across the
Room at you in high school: you would
Be this and that, and make a career from
Kissing the necks of tawny men, when all
I wanted was to swing with you in the park
For sometime after midnight, underneath
The roof of an elementary school, the colors
Darken, and we have vaguely importance
Things to disrupt the silence sporadically;
But you turned into a novel by my fingerprints.
Today I said your bosom was like the twin
Mounds of Rome, but who will read this
And pay money. I just heard my dog fart,
And now it’s time to tuck in, because my
Bank is tanking, and I have to get up early
Tomorrow to raise the dead, and take from
Them the secrets of reawakened heirlooms;
One of them has a hole in his ear from where
The nail missed its mark, but I will put all
Of them to good use, because grave robbing
Is the one industry on the rise, and we do
It by midnight, the time I think most upon
Kissing your dirty mouth.