Muse Named Erin Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Days of canals and sweet scars attracting
Honey-bees and mosquitoes;
I have been accused of plagiarism by a teacher who
Couldn’t do;
I am in-love with a fresh man child,
I finger-paint like apple snails down his vermilion
Nape;
Holidays of fieldtrips, venal forgemenots,
Words overused like stragglers in a lustrous park:
All the day is as sharp as cutlery, as if we’ve been staring
Down a housewife’s blouse as she does her cookeries
In the kitchens,
Swinging the wine racks, promenading low cut
In a sweet and sour zoetrope before her children,
Her oldest daughter out near the pool,
Crenulated, made of stainless steel:
There is a house I always remember when I am thinking of
This,
And fireworks that are still in a brown bag somewhere,
Still good to use;
But these words are tremulous, asking for more liquor,
Making eyes at the quixotic alligators in the shallow erogenous
Regions of the park across from the whores;
But Sharon is still in love with her husband,
Pretending that ever yother man is broken- The day shoots off
Like monuments of arson,
And somewhere above this crown of thorns
A muse named Erin rides another man’s horse.