The Fieldtrips Of Your Mouth Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Going down into the crypt, shoeless, Singing
The nursery rhymes that should exist:
And now all of this stuff,
Blown as if up from the consumptive lips of another
Exhausted and overworked genie:
And I really shouldn’t have a home or a bicycle,
But now you are almost home, Alma,
Or you are making out with your man at the movies:
All my thoughts are hung upon what it is that you are doing,
And my father wants money,
And he is counting his horses, while the moon riles over the
Cotton fields of the defeated generals of his glorious world,
And I don’t care what presidents have been shot:
It is all in the past, and
Maybe it is that you will make love to Nelson again tonight:
Maybe it is that he will be that man of your soul,
Even though he doesn’t deserve to be:
This world isn’t fair, and all of the pretty lions are in their cages
When they should be out eating their men,
And I wish it was that the pretty colors that I wore attracted you
Unconditionally, but at least it is that I have tasted the
Fieldtrips of your mouth,
And shared a bed with you that never should have existed.