Thunderbird Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Thunderbird



I tried crying for you by the hour,
But you would not listen to me,
A next door conquistador, you awake
Bare-chested and full of rhyme
Spindled from the breakfast nooks, and
The eggs the other man has cooked for you:
You look the fool sucking in that professional
Ego, drinking the Chablis so carelessly refined,
What the television has said to tame and call you;
But my liquors make a better sport,
So much so that I would prefer crawling all around
You, the vagabond of a paramour,
And making love in the teal courts between unverified
Dreams and what I really have to say to you:
I pay no rent, but I have snuck in, and your expensive
Green space is now my home, and as I wish,
So shall I lounge about you, and smell you so,
As the sun cools your meals,
The pungent aroma reproducing bliss: your legs a shaven river
Ending in an addictive aqueduct: thus I come,
An unshaven troubadour to wrap you up
And get you done, and out the door, before your husband’s
Home with more expensive gifts for you,
And all he has to say and teach with the successful rewards
Such civility: And thus you curl, like escargot about his
Hip, while I look in like a foundling out in the humid
Holiday, tasting the last of this salt from my lip,
Waiting until tomorrow again, to regain some more
Adulterous truancy.

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Robert Rorabeck

Robert Rorabeck

Berrien Springs
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