Starting Out Anyway Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I could start out any way,
But not the way the traffic moves, like
A careful tide, a faithful ebb and flow,
Depositing the silts to and from so many
Houses, so many toy yards like costume
Jewelries, lustrous under the street lamps
As the moon. Rather I would start out
Working, even panhandling, but calling your
Name is always the procession to and from the
Vicinities of your major organs, your legs and
Hips and that mesmerizing sway: We are
Open so late, and we sell so many things,
I don’t even care who knows: Its good business
To say these things to you, to record them as they
Come off the tips overactive nerve-ends like
Flumes off of mountains, like tall naked women,
Their breasts beading water above the steam.
This is how I think of you, even in Africa or on
Mars, places I have never been on you, but other men
Have explored and made names for themselves because
They have braved you. Even if I come after them,
Even if I have little else to say, it would be enough even to
Be guided atop of you, or to bare your second or third
Child, and raise them in that ilk of deltas connected by
Dog parks and fat iguanas: To send our children out at
Dusk after school, to shoot hoops, and to make love when
They are out doing their same, to squeeze your breasts
And call you all the same things I thought of you as
As early as high school; but now I must go out into
The night and howl, and cry your name as a wounded dog
Cries for a wayward master, as the traffic flows across the
Insouciant traffics of concrete: so I cry I love you yet again,
And you say so what, and go back inside and shut the door.