The Dead End Road Of Your Unconscious Embrace Poem by Robert Rorabeck

This world concludes at three am,
The graveyard hour when hobos finally recede into
Cardboard or spikenard crèches;
I don’t know; but other boys are piling like dragons
Through her bedroom windows:
Just in the middle of high school and having a
Parade: Or I don’t know,
Lying underneath a time share of your opulent shade:
I drink my last ration of rum, and touch my face,
And prepare to embark down the dead end road of your
Unconscious embrace.