The Meal Of The Third Fitt Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Prelude to sleep: I lie down with my dogs,
In this strange answerless room, at the end of the corridor;
Where, after dusk, there are no further motes, nor rhymes
Or bells: Holidays proceed us, decorating the scars all of our
Mothers know us by, and my dogs howl for them,
Well just the little one, but he does a good job; and if she
Were here, he would leap up to, and smell her perfumed crotch,
And get rid of the foreplay for me, so we could just get right
To the real thing, the meal of the third fitt: How our hero
Survives by his betrayal, and then how, after church, all we can
See of her, is her shaven leg crooked out the car door, the
Air-condition beaming, as we reach up and consciously mask the
Watermark where the liquor kissed us, but all of that was a dream
In the rich layer of the wedding cake he feeds her. Soon they will
Both be out of money, but will have each other as long as they see
Fit, for now they are driving away.