The Pitch Perfect Hallways Of Overspilling Wells Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I caught a dropp of spit in the stream of my piss;
But what do I care about:
The things that give love also take love away,
And my goddess speaks but she only says cruelty;
And in the oblong moats of a prison’s
Suburbia,
She saunters trying on that and trying on this;
And her feet lead her mind to wonders:
Maybe she is going over to a little boy,
Crippled and gasping in a ditch; maybe she is
Running over to save a faithless pet sinking like a filthy
Trinket into the yard:
Her husband isn’t home; it is all the gravy of the bone-yard:
The moon is the mouth of the well, she fell down
And got married while she was falling; and birthed devilish children
In a well-mowed hell;
Or maybe she sees up into a mask of sky of only my lips whispering
To her of such bereavement,
Dreaming of sailors of crisp dollar ships when we were just
Children catching our perfumed eyes in farfetched lines
Across the pitch perfect hallways of over spilling wells.