The Tidiest Of The Most Surreals Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Graveyards are beautiful at any time of the day while
More beautiful people are enthralled with making love to
One another;
And this is the free sport that no one else cares about,
As I grow fat listening in my little coves at the world
So airing above my throat:
I am like the amphibian ululating for his stewardesses;
And all of this can be trusted,
Because it is just as thoughtless as gambling;
As the fish come gurgling in the lines of their bright-eyed
Nurseries into the open air,
As I have things to tell myself when no one else cares;
And I have been to the lips of mountains,
And I have seen by which passions the highways so encoil,
That the wildernesses are minted:
I have received the frostbitten lips into my ankle,
As I have loved a married woman, who is both strange and
Sincere;
And she is my muse, buying new t-shirts to cover her aching
Breasts to which I wish to afford more children to cause
To leak of life’s milky suckle;
And the world lights up as in a stage of ill-report; and the
Ships melt into their docks, the sailors dreaming of girls and
Mermaids I am sure never existed except for in my bedroom
Under the ceiling fans churning like milkmaids,
Open-breasted and yodeling like Julie Andrews in the coffins
Of the tidiest of the most surreals.