The Base Of Colorado Poem by Robert Rorabeck

No liquor since New Years
And the poems are dancing meaningless,
But they still come: like tourists,
Like clicks, in a beefy parade:

All my friends down in the grotto
Sharing the bottle,
Passing it around,
Staring out Mary in her Pieta,
The children at her hip.
Her blouse undone;
They are trying to get it out.

Here is my anonymous letter
Sent to warn the king
That I have skipped the last period,
And am now on Jordan’s roof:
Smoking, lighting off fireworks,
Watching
Alligators fart in the canal.

The dreams are ceaselessly rude,
In an intervention of life,
Like whispers through the Australian Pines,
That the Conquistadors are eating themselves,
As the sky is winding up,
Gathering up courage to ask her out.

Now all that is done,
Which was made public in the sophomoric rhyme.
I believe today was a holiday,
But I had the same thought three days ago,
So I am not clairvoyant.

She might have a boyfriend,
Which is rude but expected.
If she is sleeping with him,
She is healthier than I; but what can I say?

My favorite author is dead,
And I didn’t even know.
In regards, I am writing her a novel,
I read by a lightning bug in a jar.
She may never pick it up,
Though she still lives at the base of Colorado.