My Song Of Songs Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Songs in the long windswept suburbia of empty tombs:
Now you know exactly where I am, without reading this,
Where my mind is bubbling like
Unhealthy cauldrons, like purple bubble gum bubbles:
And the buses turn around like the custard of
Frightened ballerinas:
They are returning their sweet children home;
And I am over thirty and drinking rum.
The sky is so cerulean that looking up at it, and trying to
Believe,
Why then most of the time I don’t really want to die;
But when it gets late enough, and everything slows down,
Then I touch myself and think of ancient professors and
Snow skis,
And my next drink;
And my time is mixed up between my two or three muses:
Those who last within my like oracular candles,
And then the ladies of the moment who are always
Circulating in me like wind vanes, like the dancing Euripides;
And so, I don’t have to drink alone,
Even though I am always alone:
And these things come and do the cancan; it’s what they’re good
For, and my eyes mow the yard of another house wife
Without even having to be asked; it’s just what they do,
But they still aren’t good at math; and that old high school just
Keeps on going on and on,
While old lovers continue their new songs with their
Precipitous law makers;
And I just keep singing my song of songs.