Nothing For It Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Reaching inside the passionate gold,
Or tv shows which come on around noon for spent out
House wives: She still has great lips and a clean pool
Her son swims in as a truant: She spies and thinks about
Planting new flowers, heliotrope or taking the bus
To Michigan. In her mind, she doesn’t even give me a
Thought: she is the well-groomed affluence, transmuting,
Insouciant: for this week, a wave coming in, crypt orchid,
The distillations of the shopping mall. She wears a diamond
Ankle bracelet and paints her nails black or bruises them:
I can only give her my time, and how I create her out of a
Specific conglomerate, an easy species. She doesn’t come in
Today, maybe tomorrow. She will go around unpublished
And beautiful just as long as I do, but she’s saddled up
And perky. She doesn’t read anything but Good House Keeping,
And I’ve made her this way and given her a pack of cigarettes,
And laid off the scars. I’ve combed her hair and sat her aside/
I’ll come back around tomorrow, have a drink and make her croon.
She has beautiful eyes that like to storm and never look into mine.
She is my third poem for tonight, and my last sip. Boy, she
Is looking fine. I almost dated her in high school, and saw her many
Times in Disney World on all those trips, watched her flip over in
Her dress, doing her routines and cheers before she got married and
Took up casual drinking and karate and now I love her and there is nothing
For it. She is Italian and Catholic and insular, and that is all
There is to it, and there is nothing for it.