Silently Going Along My Way Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Silently Going Along My Way



Since no one is listening,
I might as well dance, going on tiptoes
Over the grinning skulls of crocodiles,
As if the entire yard was of vermillion piano keys:
Without instructions,
Kissing what girls that I may
Who might come floating down through the
Swelter beginning to bake through the slash-pines,
Above which canopy the commercial airplanes are
Roaring,
Their pull string engines started like lawnmowers;
And I might as well cream in my hand,
Like a little bit of offering to the invisible girls
In the low orange trees;
Grinning, scarred, because no one is looking, and
Give my best profile to the unbearable day,
As I would give my palm to the fates of a housewife’s
Careless eyes,
Give my entire filthiness over to your washing machine,
Like a tiny commercial spell they’ve accused me of
While the paper snowflakes are falling;
But what is this, I don’t care,
You’ve caught me by surprise, though I can see you are
Barely dressed and in the middle of getting interested for
Your sailor coming home from his midday sea battles,
All the monsters he’s bodily explored, well shaven-
I should make my own way over to where my parents are calling;
Its time to come home again,
Barefoot and imperfect, leaving you here to following
Your usual sway; it isn’t far to go and soon
You will be making love,
And I would love to see you again silhouetted in the bright
Smoke the sun is never done defeating,
But I can see you’re all dolled up for him,
And it is not to my nest to which you have flown to
In silk stockings- My parents have brought home dinner,
The earth is made of baseball clay
And we are all its estranged visitors, frantically knocking;
I must really be going silently along my way.

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Robert Rorabeck

Robert Rorabeck

Berrien Springs
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