The Sweet Liquors She Finally Sells Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Oh god it hurts to fill these pains
With solutions that are not real.
Like knuckles playing red down the washboards
Of this brain;
And the rivers are all straight down,
Really classical in their architecture, beautifully harsh,
And all the time Sharon is suckling her niece or some-
Other foundling:
She doesn’t care- Her eyes, her eyes what are they doing
But changing shapes and constellations.
Doesn’t she know that there is absolutely no way for
Us to reach what she is doing-
She is everything in the light of one single day,
The toads are all out singing in the carport amidst the many
Types of mints and herbs, but I cannot sing each one to her:
Sharon,
Sharon, she has a godly husband, but she doesn’t care how
She’s hurt us, how she’s fixed us in the rock-garden,
A new cenotaph who still keeps his fir, his jaw set and raw;
And there are zoetropes in the desert who bud,
Leaping- Leaping for Sharon is what they seem to be doing,
Far down beneath the end of her splendiferous draw;
And it seems that this is what she’s always been doing,
Painting the horses as they move beneath her heavenly
Seesaws;
As we swing back and forth affixed to her jigsaws,
The puzzles only the sweet liquors she finally sells can so
Easily solve.