Real Love Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Nights mouth off through the trees:
Beneath their spatters of coned canopies,
The carnies are doing their job
In light bulb erections:
The carnies who come around like butterflies
Of luminent metals:
They don’t give a damn how pretty you are,
Just get on the ride:
Then, while flying in a loop-ship,
It is all about the presocratic nature of this
Woody fraternity:
Yes, the experiments of all that tide:
Motion without any travel directions,
The tremulous plum trees, the paper airplanes,
And we are the whores underneath them,
Doing good work, getting nothing done:
The way these rivers move,
The traffic seems to be making love underneath the
Conducting lights,
And I want to take my headstone here to make love
With the gifts my parents gave me:
I want to squat in the grass amidst the tremendous flies,
All of them making so many eyes at me;
And say, here I am, here it is, whipping around-
I just go a haircut, so now I go swift;
Under the painted damsels, skimming the painted skiffs:
And I love it here,
And everything is all right all of the tourists gathered into
The slick rudeness and traveling together
Through the tinseling cricks where my muses are so
Utterly debased, and thus made better for the occupations of
Real love.