Laughing And Playing Games Poem by Robert Rorabeck

He will come home to you—oh glorious bodies
Absent minded into a church—
But tomorrow he will not buy you ice-cream—
You will have to awaken next to him in the morning and
Make that kind of joy that passes for love.
While in two weeks, my very own wife, will fly home
To me tomorrow—Now I want to promise you I
That I have not bought her a new bed;
It is a lude thing, but I will make love to her again and
Again until in the bed we once shifted our tongues,
And you once sucked my phallus
And he is coming, and you can say to him:
"Oh we have children, and we will live upon this
Forgotten peninsula for what amounts to the
Next half a decade while the scientists have to give
Up wonder if there is live on Europa or
Ganymede or Mars—until the silent unicorns come
Home or anywhere—until it is their joy we have to
Impregnate and their wishing wells become the songs I
Do not know about,
Laughing and playing games forever because they
Are absolutely sure that they never have to end.