Liberty Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The future we will create
Is up in arms,
Because you are not writing:
Kissing the masculine lips,
Like pressing inescapable bars in the zoo-
You don’t have anything to say at all?
I suppose you are too busy in
Your making-love room;
You go singing into a cavalry of
Muscular dreams unafraid....
But I don’t know you,
I don’t know you- that’s for sure,
But our family album is in the sky.
Look, and our little children will go skipping by-
I say- On the reservation,
The natives are restless, drunk,
And flee bitten, but they know you:
The one cloud in the sky is
Where you hide behind,
But with their lances they call down rain,
They make you cry;
The oldest fathers are holding a revival
In the white-lung tent in the desert of New Mexico:
The ladies there are the only pure oasis,
And you inhabit them, and make them speak
With peach fleshed tongues, rich with
The oils preserved in the canning earth-
I sell fireworks off Route 66:
The semis honks as they go by,
But they flight the red, white, and blue country
With you on their mind,
The long distance inebriation we all can
Celebrate at any time: I light the fuse,
And then step away with a beer in my hand,
And looking up, I watch you take off into the sky.