Like A Letter In A Bottle Propped Amongst The Seashells Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The colors are cold,
The flowers melt,
And my legs are too long for my torso,
My fingers sore from typing;
But if I look directly into the sun,
Then I look all right,
And I begin to fashion dreams again
About her;
She is almost there, spinning like a German
Temptress lost under immense power lines
Deep in the heart of Texas;
And I’ve told her my story lost beside
The traffic, so many times,
The insides of my cheeks wrecked from
Nervous chewing over her through the halls of
A far abandoned high school,
But sometimes I have good lines,
And little thoughts appropriated from places
Which aren’t fully understood,
But are dangerously delightful-
So here I stand once again, chest flushed like
A starling, sick from hepatitis, calling out such
A revelry that it should finds its way
Through the caesuras of dunes, to her
Wayward doorstep, like a letter in a bottle
Propped amongst the seashells.