Mariposa In The Bosque Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Ah the pain of epiphany, the realize that realization has run its
Course:
To punch the saltlick of professors in their eye, and realize that
Realization itself wasn’t just enough:
To read John Keats manhandling, and then sell fireworks,
To remember the little shaggy beasts who love you, and whose love
Is little enough;
To awaken, and to time and time again awaken in the bathrooms of
Forget-me-nots to never hardly never have the courage to look at
Myself in reflections of all of these hot mornings:
To never having been able to do that: to having been a morning in
Michigan,
To having sung so many times for my muse, that my muse has confused
Herself again:
Again, waking up, vacillating like stagecraft, like a wishy-washy thing
Of god, for surely I’ve gotten drunk and vacillated up and down
The drainage of Wellington or any old imported town on inflatable
Canoes:
Up and down, and up and down and up, Erin! Up! Because everything else
Is just old, just old news, Erin- Just old news:
And now he is inflated like a super tough bicycle, Erin:
Like a super macho bicycle, Erin, making his early morning rounds and
Spreading all of your news;
So what have you to lose, Erin:
What, exactly what is there for you to lose,
While all of New Mexico spreads her garments just realizing she was
A mariposa in the Bosque, Erin: and what, really what is there for you
To lose?