Not Even Bret Harte Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Not Even Bret Harte



The day pours its molasses over the older
But still working body; I have nothing to do,
And I am almost as old as Christ was....
I think of a Jesuit college, and graveyards where
Beautiful women already sleep who
Have won Pulitzers, and were married to men
They did not love: but I cannot look into
Their eyes, even though they are everywhere.
My mother is away at the grocery store,
And my dog is asleep on the sheetless bed,
And how he runs as he dreams I can never be
Certain. There are older tales than this, little seamless
Plays, echoing of high school which never quite
Happened. My father is fixing the fence, and
I have a book published, but I should be outside
Working, loving women in fastfood restaurants,
Beautiful women who might go down, who do
Not expect so much. Soon there will be a new president
And a parade, and then I must stop hibernating. I’ve
Saved almost enough to buy a house, but not quite,
Like the poems I display to no one, the great band
Full of spittle and sincerities. If I had awakened earlier,
I should have been Mark Twain, but now I am not
Even Bret Harte, and no one even knows who he
Is anymore, and that should be the subject of my
Dissertation should I ever step back up to the plate,
And show the blue devil on the red mound what
I am capable of....

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Robert Rorabeck

Robert Rorabeck

Berrien Springs
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