Quarterback To The Civil Wars Of Spain Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I drink the last bit of rum
And think of the color of your underpants:
The alligators, if they think of anything,
Think of runaways and the Pirates of Pinzance:
They have been doing this for so long
And so well,
They have very low rates of insurance:
And your eyes are blue like the ice moons of Jupiter
The scientists sing and croon about:
My sister Janice has a sugar glider named
Gustaff who eats sugar globes and earth warms,
And farts his way across her rented rooms
Like the living recreation of a
Paper airplane:
And I fell in love with you in fourth grade:
You were the captain of the patrols; and the grasses were
Mowed and very green,
By the tax payers’ silver dollars, and by all of their loot:
I remember looking at video game magazines on the back of the
Bus with a boy named Chris;
I remember traveling home in the lips of the rain
Like a tiny quarterback to the Civil Wars of Spain;
And I pined for you for a decade; and I will see you tomorrow,
And splay my fingers like cypress bows against the
Shoulder blades of your sugar cane:
I will push you in our species of simple ways, like blue gills
On hot summer days;
And your eyes will move like constellations, anyways,
Like the gravity stars give to other stars;
And your feet will kick up off this plane,
And point the direction to your sorority of other stars.