To A Place I Am Sure Doesn'T Belong Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Heads of tallow now bonfires,
Little busses circling her wrists where lions jump:
Her tears are the little showers of
Girls lockers they get naked in, victorious after
The game;
And where am I, and why are they not singing about
Me- a picture of Dorothy in my pocket
I will not return,
All of my friends smoking and telling little
Secrets in the white washed huts in the waves.
I hear them singing better from the good side of my face;
And you can pay for the parade and walk down the
Street with them, and ride on pasifinos with boys
Who can do simple illusions; I don’t
Care: I toss airplanes like coins in the sky, and
I don’t even need to fold them.
Everything has lost its apoplexy and drunken from the
Fountain of youth, and the conquistadors are having
Sleepovers and now I cannot sleep:
The beautiful woman I murdered and buried underneath the
Roses in the garden of my novel,
I named Gloria, but now she has awakened up as if
Fireflies had burned away her print,
But got sick off her and now are dying amidst the coral and
Shells along the path leading up through the aspens,
And to a place I am sure doesn’t belong.