Sirens, Or Beowulf's Mother, Whoever- Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Cold eddies,
Spills into my holes,
Fills it up with rum,
These beautiful atolls
Where sharks run- There isn’t
Any shade,
But the coral relaxes.
Airplanes burn underwater,
And I have supreme optimism
Of having my name in print under
A more august publication;
But still, the old dog is licking himself
Noisily,
The horses whinnying, but the lightning
Doesn’t flash inside-
Old girlfriends too, show up well-clichéd,
With hyphened last names and hullabaloo;
But I kind of just grin,
And I quietly shine,
I don’t show my cards,
I just ring my rhyme;
And the straights continue their bleached flow-
Veteran heroes come draped in extravagant fleece.
Whatever danger that was before in the
Whirlpool blocking the path,
They have cleared and now smile glistening and
Bronzed- Showing brilliant teeth and
Flexing their stuff: sirens, or Beowulf’s Mother,
Whoever:
Undefeatable, they have learned how to
Enjoy the show and then mosey on.