Their Coffins And Their Tombstones Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Come in with your coattails as black as gypsies,
And I will jerk off as if I am tipsy;
And I am not macho enough for you to finger yourself
Like the foreplay of horseshoes,
Which is your man’s sport; and I sell so many fireworks
First under the full moon,
And then under the blue moon,
That I should have to resort to this penance
Of unhappy tears,
I have been to so many places, I have leapt
So many years
That I miss my dogs in Arizona; and I have so many muses
Who don’t love me,
Who sleep under the sad mountains and under
The happy lees;
That I should have found love by now,
I should have crept up upon immortality; but only my
Dogs love,
Only my dogs love me- and I don’t know who I am,
And your father has died,
And your grandfather has died: and their coffins and their
Tombstones are as equally beautiful as their creeping
Immortality.