The Promises That Were Never Made Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Bandy-legged, like a curious instrument put
Down in the middle of adolescence,
And never picked up again,
Molting in a suburban orchard, yes I still
Exercise
Lollygagging through the semiprecious
Mailboxes of this next evenings crepuscule-
I become as delightful
As the tail end of a pantheistic carnival,
As lilting as a see of obnoxious fanfare;
And my muses perpetuate the sky,
Soft and venal, with only airplanes interrupting
From a different level of sweet hallucination;
And it feels so wonderful to know
That not a single one is considering me:
Diana isn’t even considering me, and I would
Buy her a house;
And I am as thoughtless as the immortal alligators
Creating crenulated geometry down towards
The wet lips of the overconfident easement;
And my feet strum, and my feet fibrillate,
And the only souls a see are retired and they wave
Like ghosts, like the inopportune bravery of
Already surrendered flags,
And there is a new school of whispers in the surcease
Of overeager tadpoles,
The traffic streaming on the other side of the world
Like herds of feverish angels,
Taking all the old ones away, bringing in new stores,
But I seem to pass it all away, leaping on randy
Foot through the mowed glade,
Breaking all the promises that were never made.