Striped Socks To The Grave Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I love you with your hand that way upon
Your shoulder,
And your eyes indescribable except that they might
Be just the same as the final stare sailors give
Given up to the sea;
See how I keep doing this, trying to call you out
To play with me, giving up entire houses to your pensive
Lips;
And you are lost, too good for words,
With your eyes the expression of deeply ghostly worlds:
What more impotent words for love than these,
Tossed like unnoticed bouquets at your feet, like crumbs for
Strangely sated pigeons: and what are you,
And who are the men you love:
I want to stand for every minute I have breathing in the same
Storefront as you sell wine to breast feed your child,
And I don’t care if it is raining, or if I have fallen on the
Hard times of four legs tonight; all I can do is say those
Trite expressions and listen to the rivers overflow,
And your eyes give away nothing,
Everything else spinning, spinning, with entire fairytales hitting
Hard on the witches, motionless echoed- all they are given
Is a free lunch and striped socks to the grave.