The Queen Of Typos Poem by Robert Rorabeck

If I am a marginalized figure, will
You write a screen play about me?
Will we then go together to the juvenile
Vineyards and run down those rows like dirty
Wedding processions, throwing our fits;
Because we have not won any awards for our
Hard earned scars. We will carry the flag together,
And I will kiss your greasy forehead as if this were Spain,
And we will feed each other heliotrope orbs
Before they can commit to the bottle: If I have
You here, cannot I say that I hold in my hands evidence
Of the signs of life, more available than any billboard;
And even without permission, blow you in those
Early morning mists even before the yawners awaken
Lined up against the Pacific, for even if I am
Taking a break from luxury cruises, I am still the
Queen of typos. Now all the old gods are dead and
Laid out in vivid lavender and they are playing reruns
Over them, with uneasy laugh tracks trying to earn money
But feeling terrible about it. Let them cover up the murders,
And stuff what flowers they have sent into a tin horn to mute
The crying dead: IF I have not loved the fermentations of the
Bottle, I have not loved you, and if I could only learn to
Quote Bukowski with the ease and girth of middle-class
Pomposity, then it would be as if to draw the handkerchief
From your neck and call the palest of bulls from
The freshly painted barn.