The Muse Of My Eternal Stories Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Done again with your ablutions up against
The lakes that some rich man dug:
Up again and the dunes all around you, the cantankerous
Hyphens peppered by loons:
And this is your ballroom; this is your bedroom.
Your movie theatre is wide open and over spilling with the
Third Reich and the bearded Sanhedrin;
And now the day is all the time laughable, and all the good
Sports are only baseball;
And this is not my thing, catching consumption for the beautiful
Darts of beautiful dragon flies out once again in the
Perfecting gardens in the drenching rains;
And if I know you, its because I’ve flown airplanes over the
Glaciers in Alaska,
And picnicked with my family and black cats:
And I know there are things you’ve yet to even think of
Even now in your backyard; and I wonder now, Erin, how many
More days do we have to go to get to Easter,
Because I really want to find your legs; and all of your men right
Now, how are they doing:
What kind of show do they put on right now, and is there smoke in
You dance halls, because you really belong out on my prairie;
And my mother isn’t home right now, and all the planes are straight
And comely; and if they’ve been spoken by me, why then they
Are exaggerated.
And you are a beautiful fountain, contemplative, blue collared and
Busty;
And I love you, and I steal things to offer to your chromed emblem,
For you are up again each morning,
Burning, the muse of my eternal stories.