The Misleading Gravity Of A Soft Pillow Poem by Robert Rorabeck

What is left of the cheap liquor is waiting
Paradoxically to put away the scars,
While more grow like unobtrusive lichen on
A mysteriously alluring planet, like a leading man;
And the French actress doesn’t know you exist;
You’ve just found out about her yourself,
When you go to movies alone and watch her in
A gunfight burning in a theatre full of nazis:
She represents the triviality of your art form,
The lackadaisical anonymity you play around in
Building your little castles in your bedroom populated
By plasticine armies and Indians; and wax figurines
Stolen from the zoo, even though you don’t live
There anymore and the house was given to someone
Else- Maybe she is really from Canada and you only
Went together for two weeks, but French kissed almost
Every single day and had phone sex until she left
You spendthrift in the everglades; and now the parks don’t
Ride, and the literary agent isn’t caring to write back,
For who has the heart to publish a two week long novel
Anyways; and there is nothing for it, but to put your
Head to the misleading gravity of a soft pillow and
March down to it, all the time entreating those gods who
Don’t exist except for on holidays and tourisms across
The lamplight sea, and then only for more cavalier men than
Who you’ll ever have the right to be.