One Final Glass Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Now I am drunk and given to my mute horrors
Which will never sell;
They aren’t quite beautiful, anyways, the bouquets
You thought should heal;
And if I’ve been to your tiny city, it was just as a
Little child: I’ve probably been to Manitou but it
Was only to buy ice-cream,
For the rest of my time is always used to break trail,
To break ice, and to pretend to kiss my sister on
The lips for the movies we go together to and don’t
Like;
And you are sleeping now, dreaming of strange dusks
And their mornings- so I am safe to come out and
Howl,
Marking my territory down your street which isn’t
Real, wearing my masks of defeat: and I love you,
I love you how true; I am the punchy moth who comes
Out through the braveries of cheap rum,
Knocked out in the twenty-ninth round; I drove my
Truck straight past Disney World and didn’t look
Back,
Because all the billboards depicting your lactating mountains
Already showed me how much it would cost to succeed toward
The migrations of a sea of just one woman who wasn’t
Real tonight anyways, but the careless light
Sheathed in a silky glove used to crush my wings thoughtfully
As green-eyes reaches for one final glass.