My Brothers Of The Lonely Roams Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Is this the place to set in my ways,
The bungalow for a bachelor and his laughing dogs;
To sit and watch the sallow sun rise and fall
In my anonymous poverty;
To drink the liquor prophesied in the advertisements,
To walk through the skin of the forest fire
Inebriate in a haze of lunar houses spilling into the hills;
To be done and out of it before my body falls,
The spindles of energy unwound by the clocks
Bearded like old men melting lackadaisically in the trees,
Too afraid of the gentle adoption of the female element,
All the better women transformed into centaurs and feasting
On the lightning storms;
Her eyes a bad wonder for more suitable men accessorized with
The studded accoutrements of success;
The growling warmth of the steady eyed glares from out of fast cars,
In the fine houses of natural selection, beneath the gated communities
Of affluent foreplay;

Let me spend my days here instead,
Where the fire has already ravaged; where I feel at home
With my likewise environment, on a burned down hillside steadily populated
By albino trailers of the moonshine blind and strange, dysfunctional homes,
Half eaten, like ribcages of whales left over from the last oblivious age,
To howl in the windy night with my brothers of the lonely roams;
And to listen, content to be alone, to the listing creak and
Inevitable surrender of this accordion foundation swinging its gin
In the gusty bordelloed night, like a seafarer’s boat tossed on the spitting foams.