Still Waiting For Me Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The night is so sad and unmysterious:
Mother does the wash, of course,
And the old folks sit out in front of their porch,
Dreaming and sweating that they
Still had the capacity
Or the balls for suicide:
And I want to get to the gun just any way I can-
Then when I am dead,
Or at the exact frantic millennium when the
Hereditary bullet is ruining my already hereditary
Ruined skull and its
Really messed up amusements,
I can dream, oh yes I can that she must have loved me,
At least a pinprick full of unwholesome love,
And that after I was gone they could play rusting
Trumpets for me
While one or two homeless men let off oral sex with
Alligators long enough to read something I
Had written and to declare that I had beaten the
Ever loving sh%t out of Shakespeare,
To become occult in my death,
Esoteric in the sky, while the swing still sweated out
For me, creaking its kind of howl
Like a dog, like a woman,
Still waiting for me to come home.