The Favorite Colors You Avoid Poem by Robert Rorabeck

You neither like cats or dogs:
As far as I know, you have no pets of any kind,
Except for the rabbits who disappeared
So conveniently after eating your mother Rosa’s
Mango tree:
I had rabbits who disappeared too, who my dog kissed
Unto death in my mother’s rock garden;
And you don’t like the sunlight, but you like the gold
That I can buy for you:
You can wear it in a band around your finger;
And you love your family most of all, while I hardly see mine,
Though I have hiked with them once or twice down into
The middle of the grand canyon,
But not as many times as I have made love to you,
And you have become a tourism of my art, my flesh a feverish
Banner meant to display itself,
And keep you comfortably in the esoteric limelight,
As I try to grow the world over in the favorite colors you avoid.