The Easy Proof Of Science And Divinity Poem by Robert Rorabeck

My secret agendas go unpublished.
When my parents leave, I steal downstairs and
Write poetry.
I feed my dog the rest of my peanut butter
And jelly sandwiches.
I am neither generous nor stingy.
My cousin is pregnant and there could be
Complications; she used to appreciate
My poetry. My sister is getting married,
And I will give her $200.
Even though I haven’t drunken a dropp of
Liquor since the forth of July, I continue
Thinking of you. How strange, when I can’t
Even spell your name, when another man slips
Into you, when you cry and curse such pleasure;
His DNA is all over you;
You appreciate his well-proportions, like sports
Cars, useless and sculpted,
Unless you have too much money, and
Too much time;
But even now the Hubble space telescope is taking
Extravagant photographs of unperceivable galaxies:
The stars as so thick, they make a soup,
But you and I are here together, breathing.
Your lips are delicious: such life, but how strange
That I should never speak to you,
When your friendship would liven me like undeminishable
Words in a perfect book; not like anything else,
Not like a bowl of fruit left uneaten,
Not like cold chicken noodle soup in a thermos.
If I had you, what would I do with you?
I might go back to school and see you there between the splays
Of shades and suns, and however you might look
Unconsciously lulled by the caress of an unacknowledged
Tide, married, and pregnant too. I don’t know,
But should you look out into the greatness of sky and
See nothing, know that there are worlds and worlds uncountable,
And I behold you the same,
For you are an easy proof for both science and divinity.