No One Goes To School Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Shaking like the stars,
Like the higher and lower amusements in
10 pnt font,
I write to you what should and must be the last
Poem of my drunken evening:
I have no foyer, no writing, room no desk,
No dolphin: no career.
I am no king of France, but if I believe in god,
Then you are him,
You are a single rose lost in the street,
You are my pecker: Do you understand?
I am dying- I am dying with my dogs,
And you don’t care- The audience full,
But none of you understand: That the lights are dying,
That it is raining still but almost done,
The last conquistador is on his knees,
The pie is on its sill; and I am almost done:
I am really, truly almost am: the amphibians ululating in
The carport,
The sea with its perfumes as with its unction’s- the fumes
They keep open to sell the dolls and the wrists,
And I am done with college,
And done pretending to be at the fair with the underage
Girls and flying saucers: I am just selling things,
As we all do on these half a dozen continents,
And tomorrow it will be used cars and wild ponies.
South Florida is a fine place to die, if all a sudden it should
Be an end to my drunken poem, so be it:
I will not write to you tonight- The birds are stuck up into the
Trees,
The golf balls are missing in their holes, the waves are dying upon
The sea; and I would have been a virgin for so many years,
If I hadn’t been with you so many years ago-
I am good enough now, and the doorbell doesn’t ring-
In the bright sunlight it keeps the girls inside with their dolls,
It doesn’t ring at all,
And no one goes to school.