Like Milkmades Migrating Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Don’t even try, because she could never love you:
Your words are for little boys; Kelly will never
Write again,
So its best you go back to manicuring for your little toys:
Touch yourself in the window panes of your pain,
Become naked for your cats and dogs,
And let it rain alone in the rain;
And she will kiss the boys of her various Halloweens,
And she will be apologetic and understand how you have
Collected the various figurines of her through your own
Pains;
And you will never be published again, but ride mutely through
The interstates of such premature death;
You will never be able to come up again for another sweet and
Tender breath;
And the orange groves will tremulate, but thankfully the
Mexicans will come again to weed and hoe quite greedily;
And she will fall in love again quite steadily
And so will never have to recall again how you fell away from her
Reminiscing, how she touches all the fully grown sperm again.
Laughing in the creeks of her permanent university,
Letting the rivers flow into rhymes again, never suggesting that
She even pretended how to remember how your crooked logics flowed
Over her like harems of heroes on their way to pull over the
Dreamy sheets of cotton gins and hang overs;
To kiss her mouths and swear again to be the heroes of her
Soul for her; to wake her up and call her again to the birthday parties
Of her childhood, in the concrete grottos she swam down from
Wisconsin, like milkmaids migrating from the cliffs of Dover.