The Least Of All The Littlest Things Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I walked my dog’s twice today, and saw
A blond haired mother walking her blond haired boy
So far away from the sea- They must have been sad,
But they didn’t seem so:
They were in Southwest Saint Louis anyway;
And I didn’t see any cardinals or hear any airplanes,
But I got underneath the great buildings near the
Stadium; and I am watching the seagull and reading
Travel books by Auden, waiting for the solicitors
And admirers to begin,
For all my good friends to move in and kiss me with
Their eyes, and feed my dogs, and pay my bills;
I am waiting to learn better words for better things,
Still hoping to learn to spell, for my deficits to regain:
Waiting for the resurrection, the bodily resurrection of
A sad poet slumbering away in Bellefontaine;
I should travel to her by foot and spill my wine around her
Crypt and bare my engorged heart which beats with
The golden tracks of the congo of her dead lover: Rejected,
I wait for philanthropic patrons to discover my banner
And toss to me banquets of incomparable riches that scatter
All around the roadside, rolling under the wheels of cars,
And the shadows of the wings of airplanes;
So I might scramble after it, like all the rest, thirsting for
My failures underneath the skirted outfits of stewardesses,
Beseeching them for a sip of their overpriced liquors
Which curl like ripe dew from the gleaming tips of their
Perked bosoms; or the least of all the littlest things.