Their Forgotten Chests Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Another carnival taking down
As the sun goes too,
Clipped from the pages of better men,
Men who know how to wink and
Throw that ball,
Whose brushes with her lingerie seem to
Stick to the roof of my mouth,
When they leave me for bedrooms to
Tramp,
And I know the signs,
And the ways they lounge in insects’ moats
All day,
Enjoying the ravages,
Never letting off their playboy grins,
The forensic teams with hair lips and
Flashbulbs who voyeur them like conquistadors
With boxes of glazed donuts;
And I carve my stick,
And kiss my dog,
And it should be the last day for me in this
Bed,
Because I’m moving on, leaving on my marks
In wooden doorposts,
Leaving only the cenotaphs poached from more
The steady traffic of professionals off the whale
Sea- How easily they are taken,
And given flowers to, and tin horns which do
Nothing as the wind blows across the mowed
Grasses
As across their forgotten chests.