Moving Closer To Dunsinane Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Longing, seemingly meaningful compunctions
Out in the middle of the working class lawn,
Under old glory- Just little trinkets of brass the
Ants sprinkle, no longer any use for revelry;
And I am getting up, and I am drinking,
And trying to get about, boned tendrils tremulous
Before lunch, believing this isn’t even my house,
But a song I might be keeping for just a little while
Before I go out and begin to lose my mind,
As it floats up above the traffic of the salutary holiday,
And up the hill of my footsteps compunctions,
Past the topless bathers on the green, the horned readers,
The superheroes and the ne’er-do-wells so darned busy
With their studies or their lunching,
The girls twin-flecked with just the choicest currencies,
Like man-o-war, rich and stung- I will go up to
The cemetery where a few of my relatives or therein buried,
Under the cross and the plastic statue of the Virgin Mary;
Here, even in the careless daylight it seems like a film noir,
The careless daughters gunned down by their gangster fathers,
And it is the perfect place to build a swing set and begin the
Motions of a last minute lesson, though studied well,
The censers of arch bishops, the incense of alligator pine:
The legs kick out fretfully as if they might swim or fly,
But neither am I fish or fowl, and soon in this weather I’ll
Be out of work, and the University wont even allow me to clean
The caracoles and gum from the desks, but this is fine-
A little wine, and a little bit of illegal pleasure, and the day
Does swim, as each tree in the stunted forest knows, rooted,
Swinging such Olympic arms- We are all moving closer
To Dunsinane pleasurably in our crypts,
Gravity taking its luscious and impenetrable time,
As the clouds make fables on the blue endless wall to
Entertain.