The Tattoo That I Wish That I Had Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Another motor at the ribs not filling
Up,
Coiling in the cessation of the gullies
And the trampolines:
This is a cul-de-sac anyways:
And while I am here, is anyone
Selling ice-cream:
Oh well, I have been up and down her melting,
While selling ice-cream.
And her children have come,
Like crazy fireworks,
Buy two get one free, and eaten from the strange
Reservoir of my hand:
Or they have gotten up again only to lie
Down and enjoy the shade immediately,
I guess,
Of their most immediate place in the
Hemisphere,
The waves leaping over what we have made,
In the business
Of the children who lay here, freckled,
Like tombstones in the shade,
Underneath all of the trees who go weeping,
But joyfully, as if they were introduced
Into parks,
As the ant-lions promenade- what homes of
Adobe exist anymore, and what do I have left to
Go back home to,
As she lies nude and with him, relaxing with
The shade, as the waves leap and drown hungrily
Against her-
As the hummingbirds drink sangria-
And she remains the tattoo that I wish that
I had.