The Threshold Of A Vastly Apathetic World Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Bag of rum at my hip,
Shaded and sheathed by the palmettos
Who are always over joyous to have survived the frost;
And somewhere just above my head the stewardesses
Are floating and serving overpriced drinks to
Their really lost boys;
And it almost feels like a household above my head,
On a heavy line of string something ancient pulls from
The waves;
And there is a motor purring softly in the deeply un-absolved
Trenches, which are like a woman’s legs,
Or like my mothers:
She has given up swimming and evolved and just lies
There now with some tremendous blow-hole waiting for him;
And the sky is like the absurd possibility of overpriced
Fruit,
And it all seems to be hanging there waiting for him to come
Home,
And to hold the chalice of her body like rain across the threshold
Of a vastly apathetic world.