The Things I So Often Say - Poem by Robert Rorabeck
I read my own words like looking
At myself in the mirror.
When I blur, I am beautiful,
And have important things to say.
I stand on the green carpet of my
Old house in Loxahatchee, and
Catch the garter my uncle flings
Behind his head: I will never marry,
But she will continue to wake up sweating,
Remembering the red Super 88 I used
To drive in and out of the sea,
How I sucker-punched the kid in the
Parking lot and then went on to kiss his
Bruised lips while the telepathic cheerleaders
Watched. Outside, snow crystals
Fall uniquely on the street lamps:
They have just discovered electricity,
And men come down from the mines and get
Drunk beneath the room I am renting,
Their laughter comes especially on the weekends,
When they present the whores who weary
Frilly purple, like lavender, the geodes which
Are worthless but beautiful when opened
And shown for the world to see like a wound.
They dance beneath me, as moths are drawn
To lights: encased in glass, they can no longer
Die honorably, but I catch them when they
Tire, and hold them to my lips
And kiss them as if they were my own children,
Telling them the things I so often say.
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