The Forgotten Parts Of Her Town Poem by Robert Rorabeck

As a goldfish, I can barely breathe or
Spell- growing lethargic is not the word, but look
At the mountain underneath its spell:
Words of luckless joy given over to her nimble movements:
She seems to be coming around again
Across the skating rink of her banishing echoes;
And the monsters patrol her old neighborhood,
Remembering how she would not kiss them:
She comes up to their necks, bubbling, golden:
She seems to, but she will not kiss them,
And the words distill their own joy out of nothing;
They remain truants crooked in a tree fort,
And, for whatever reason,
I have nothing for them: defunct on a raft in the middle
Of the suburban heavens, I continue on, lazily,
Suppliant to their pop-art spell: she really doesn’t
Love me, but I’ve tasted her soul of caramel and it seems to
Be coming up to her: the stolen bicycles and the airplanes
Are touching down- and this is my art in the palmettos
In the rainstorms in the forgotten parts of her town.