The Colors Of Our Throats Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Little squalls of luxury looking over the
Riverbanks,
New carless words birthed from the furrowed
Lips of the forest besides
The university- it is where I go,
Where there are no gravestones, only sticks,
And the weather beats-
And the movies are hamstrung,
And I respect her now, because this is her
Exit, sweltering, made to lush,
And we are moving towards her before
Sunlight while she is probably sleeping with
Her favorite echo of a man:
We smell like an old gas station, like otters
After a certainly lugubrious lunch
Of clams and housewives-
The bicycles beneath them like overused dimes
In a freshwater wishing well:
We leap over them to get to her, our joyful,
Mouth less friends,
Even though she doesn’t not the colors our
Throats have grown with her songs,
Because she is not happy to see us.