Many A Dripping Kiss Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I haven’t been in to town,
I haven’t read a thing, though distant
From the inter-lapping hurricanes, it was
Where I was born, and still live cerebral,
Cut my teeth on anonymous women,
Busty saints conquering the surf;
I put them there to start the thing,
Giving me reasons for the new cessations
Of my time: to lie here and watch the isolation,
My dogs who lull in the grass with drunken
Tongues: they canines, my faithful all,
The all that is enough;
The spider in the pump house has moved away,
But there are his legs in another arachnid’s sack;
She doesn’t call, I shouldn’t say:
I should laugh and play a game of ball.
Here are pictures of smiling students,
Here is only one in cap and gown; the old neighborhood
Is purple like a bruised fighter who has fallen
To pay the bills; no one I know lives here anymore,
Jack and Jill are over the hills on
A honeymoon of sorts; they are not taking phone-calls,
They’re in each others pants, and in the pool,
Cutting like an insouciance of sun, drinking bodies twisting
Play without referees,
Draping in the inebriation of white washed walls,
They get other boys to paint the fence for them,
They don’t do anything, anything but this,
For they paint the distant bodies I now recall,
Those who live so close to the other with
Many a dripping kiss.