Plastic Bourgeoisie Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The doctor spanked me from my mother’s
Womb and handing me over to her said,
“Here he is, ” and she held me and cooed
And said my name, which was the best news
I had heard up until then:
And my first word was goat,
While my first lover’s word was hot,
But she left me six years ago to marry a Jewish
Lawyer in South Florida;
And now I think it not inappropriate to say,
That my word was better,
And that, considering the magnetic dictations
Of her routine Diaspora, that what became of her: a
Paralegal with a hyphened last name,
With a sports utility vehicle
And a ways to go, savage irony:
Like the name of a hair band, her parents condemned
Her to a lifetime of dinner conversations at seemingly
Upscale restaurant chains, and on special occasions
Places that require a dress-code,
And light conversation without scars:
The daffodils above her head are plastic, like the
Mezuzah hung in the doorway in place of a Catholic
Cross: But she is not without guilt, doing her
Casual betrayals, and paying for Chinese with
Her thirty pieces of silver on Christmas:
When, even on informal holidays, she might see me slipping
In and out of the caesuras with my bawdy mermaid,
Drinking to my dysfunctions with cheap rum:
I had lost my way, but remembering the name
My mother had given to me, the guttural Ango-
Saxon: goat, as in,
Robert saw the goat out in the fields of Michigan,
And felt happy,
Kindled such individual faith that she should never know,
And I keep from her when she is even far away and not looking,
My first word grazing out in the frozen fields of upper peninsulas,
So that I should never have to experience again,
That easier language she has used to regale herself even while
She burns her hand.