To Make It Known Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Striking out like the venom of a favorite color:
And I get drunk again: lose my promises: try to figure out the old
And vulgar sins of becoming for a little while
More beautiful:
Words without gods or presidents lying in the wishing wells of
Their death beds:
Like bloodied rabbits in the suburban grasses while the
Red toothed dogs are smiling:
Old words of luckless friends vanishing or selling Christmas trees
While the bodies ache far across the swaybacked wishbones
Of all of those mountains:
Forgotten muses selling wine working on their second children
And their mortgages:
While the luckless three legged rabbits leap, frightened by
The din of triangles who
Are doing their best to make it known at supper time.