To Be Afforded Any Old Sort Of Wish Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I love you, Diana, I love you:
And I am dying, even while I try you out,
And you wished that I would buy you negligee for your
Birthday, so I went to the mall in Palm Beach Gardens and I did;
If only because I am not a mailbox and I am dying,
I am dying like a cat on the fence with all of his lives molting and
Even with all of this air-conditioning, I am dying,
Dying: trying to not touch myself while I am going:
And look at all of these beautiful scars pin wheeling in the sweet
Home of this vortex:
Look at how I am dying for you and your daughter, Diana:
Look at how I am going even while you are having sex;
And that I love you, Diana, and I want to fall down between your
Faggots like in a hearth, and smell out all of your sweet cadavers;
And don’t you understand now, only if I was speaking English,
And this was shop class, and I was part of the erudite intelligences;
Even if I wore a corsage;
I am trying to mouth off for you in front of lions, but I am just a slender
Fish, or I am your sweetened coelacanth or gar learning all the roadways
Of your body, getting ticketed, just because I wished to be with you
And I wasn’t beautiful enough to be afforded any old sort of wish.