Mistaken Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Oh, this liquor dies until the horses are only
Skeletons
In the desert; and you know they are; and they are no
More heroes than
Cowboys,
The rest stops are haunted with all the old loves
Who are bearing their children
Up to the porcelain wash basins before
The mirrors,
The mirrors; and I get erections in the mowed grass
Green on holidays of
Truancy,
Combed back to the ruby birthstones of the open
Throats of lions;
And nothing about this home owner’s association is
Very fair;
And even going to the hospital, I have very little time
To perceive that I cannot live forever,
And so I would like to enter her unprotected and make
Love to her just like
My grandfather delivering love letters
While the clouds could be anyone, and that is their special
Agreement;
And maybe that is how the house found her laying out or
Even fawning in the day gone hours,
Candles dripping tallow perpetually on her aching breasts,
On her aching breasts who rose a slight way under
The shadows of the settling sun,
But if I ever thought that was for me, then I must have been
Mistaken.