Painting The Throats Of Leaves Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Painting The Throats Of Leaves



Too many scars to start drinking, and too many
To stop writing poetry, the wilting daisies which
Spring from the edge of my fingertips;
And this is the dry season of my celibacy,
Where forest fires leap like court jesters over
The cracked and brittle courts, and the days are
Arid and propitious, and my father greets my politely,
And I catch horses one handed,
And listen to a baseball game on the radio-
Time flows like a sunny river, and mother cries at
Her kitchen table, and I can’t think of anything better
To do;
But I still get one over the librarians who try to fine
Me- Can’t believe I could read Walt Whitman,
But rather believe I’m a dusty thief of ancient highways,
Ask me where Don Quixote and The Idiot are, and
I show them like a simple card trick, and then they
Can’t look me in the eye, and have to concede that I
Am quite swift, but I do not lecture them, but leave them
To the bucolic weeds,
For I am already dancing like paper and a match,
And here is the reason I am to be alive: Here is the reason
Why my dogs run to greet me, and she reads me over
Seas with sweaty thighs: This is my summer, and things
Are happening; But I still play alone, and reciprocate with
My loneliness like sunshine painting the throats of leaves.

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Robert Rorabeck

Robert Rorabeck

Berrien Springs
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