The Limpid Sunday Poem by Robert Rorabeck

If you can’t see it,
The validation is in the lines;
At least it is meant to be there.
When I am walking alone in the
Sweating south,
Amidst the rows of colonnaded sororities,
And not a single whimsy lass
Hangs out her balcony with a springtime
Sigh, and a thumping heart- a swoon;
I give the polished sadness an inward smile,
And I few beers later I am still alone,
But scribbling out the crooner’s lips,
My cheap pen then the paladin’s retribution:
And my love comes to me,
Scratching at my studio door, the swimmer from the pool
Perfumed of chlorine,
Bronzed like a seventies supermodel:
With the hairdo of a sandy dove,
And I smile because she is there,
And the cypress are framing her like
An apocryphal nativity;
Her nipples the gumdrops lost in the leaves,
Her eyes lined with tinfoil and blue spray paint:
She has a bed of wet fireworks she wants to dry
On my rug,
Undress and listen to comedy to cheer up the graveyard:
The unlined sensation of the places on her
Unshelled and shivering,
The naked crustacean out of the feminine sea:
Her lips the little knocks timid solicitors give;
Her curves the abandoned highways in Spain.
In the morning,
I can take her out just as she is,
And no one can see her in the limpid Sunday:
Up and down the sororities- She does not rush,
But goes about as I give her time to,
And when the boys come out- She does not crush,
And I give her a dime to
Call her lonely mother, and tell her everything
Is going to be fine....