Like Steaming Snails Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Yellowing house of cowardice, I will move into you
The Thursday after next:
And I will masturbate and call beautiful whores from Spain into
You:
Melody or Candice, or I can’t remember her name;
And I will surely call a wife into you to cook for me, to fill the
Frightened house with your senses;
Like buses filled with row, and it will happen that it will rain over my
House,
And my mother will continue sighing wearily but thankfully I
Will not have to hear her any longer,
Even though undoubtedly my father will continue blaming me;
As you will live high up through the deltas of snowmelt of your
Valleys,
And I will go on crying out for you, mortified by my scars, while you
Bare more children that would not make any sense
To listen to me
Until the evening of another wedding begins to glow, and you can
Look into my eyes and see past ship wrecks and graveyards,
And weep apologies that will run like steaming snails down my lapels,
That you shouldn’t sooner have remembered.