Nothing Left To Prove Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Swing me up from the glass lake,
Because I don’t believe it is real anymore;
Crocodiles can touch their tears to the
Toy soldiers of its plasticine shore;
And Keats died a virgin, as I should have died,
Because the fires I stick my pins inside were
No reason to succeed;
And now there are so many children in a house
That doesn’t move,
So many lines of words with nothing to prove;
And the night seems to be evangelical,
But I wonder if it would be as religious if some science
Hadn’t invented its better light for it;
The atheisms of fish with shoes;
And you are my brightest bright of hotel muse,
And you come to me in the middle of the night and fluff
My bed and huff my shoes;
And it is because in the end that you are not real,
And I am jumping trains with the cenotaphs of my canines,
That I can finally get to sleep, as I have nothing left to prove.