Like A Careless Bumblebee With Its Honey Poem by Robert Rorabeck

It rains before autumn- This is what I’ve
Been thinking of, walking with my dogs,
Handling curious sticks over the terraces of stones:
I can hike any mountain before her man gets off
Work,
And I would buy her some flowers as a reflex,
She knows, but she is not my consumptive muse;
And I am busy on this lonely pitcher’s mound
Again, swirling the liquor of pirates around my
Mouth,
Checking for cold sores, seeing her lighthearted over
The horizon relaxing in a weekend of bathtubs;
And I ought to fly right over her and begin my foreplay
With Baudelaire, or take her to a dinner show
And eat her out, making her feel each rose thorn,
The mammalian virtues of a slender reflective night;
And even alone, I am trying to do better, to get the right
Mixture of liquor and wherewithal to spring inside her
Something eternal- That will turn into noir, with the
Rain falling over the abandoned swing sets, over each
Of the town’s dimmed churches and lit graveyards,
To see where we are going into a sort of private amusement,
The extensions of space into exclusive clubs where
The greasers and tomboys have given up and are dancing,
And each yacht out in the water has a secret knife,
Just an esoteric talisman of my doing to open her hinges
Like an envelope to read inside, dripping every word onto
Her body like a careless bumblebee with its honey.