Sorry Amusement Poem by Robert Rorabeck

In my journal entries of deciduous tennis courts,
I can romance of you, and it doesn’t even cost a thing:
I am so obscure an innocuous,
That you wouldn’t even consider sending a better
Man to pugilist my rummaged skull:
I can sit out on the mowed yard and kiss your tawny
Neck: I can sit out with all the birds who only come
Down with the octogenarian traffic,
And in winter watch the corrosive red bloom,
And hear the waves out of one year
From the booth where I can sit all alone, eyes to the side
Eating plantains and flat steak:
And the bicycles who come by sometimes in anorexic
Parades, go just as easy to her interlocking sea:
That is what she does, and she sleeps childless with
Her husband very successful and mostly amused-
She doesn’t have time to practice Latin, or remember
How I sat in her vicinity waiting for the batting eyes of
The brunette to return from her father’s quiet abuses;
And I don’t really know what I am saying-
The dogs are sleeping as my fingers are playing,
Across the scars without any freshwater amusements,
Without your faith I guess I’ll starve,
But it isn’t really any excuse for this sorry amusement.