Those Roses Put To Better Usage Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I could be the boy you couldn’t say;
Instead, the boy you couldn’t see: I’ve had better
Plans than loving the things I see most every
Day,
Blue prints of you in the navy on leave on your
Bicycle under the Spanish tambourine leaves,
Dripping like an olive, cursing on the move
Words that flow forth around you, the rushing
Sea to prove,
The non existent traffic, the different ways to
Misspell words,
The deep despondent clouds which expel from
Your covetous body somehow;
And I am not ready to come to my senses,
Or at least make money by it anyhow- My word
I should dispense with like scattering rice
At weddings, feeding the snowbirds as they retire
To the south; this worthless vitriol that tumbles
From my mouth wishing to disprove what a brilliant
Society that cooked you up- I want to be the one
Who puts shoes on your feet, Eucharist in your mouth
And set you well fed and attentive,
Taming you just so you’ll dance for me and call me
John with everything upon you but your lips,
Those roses we’ll put to better usage.