To The English Professor Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Out of the old habits of the moon,
I place myself with my dogs and start anew:
And we look over the rafters of each of our churches,
And down the sweet blouses of the Catholic girls inside
Putting on miracle plays and busting out the papier-mâché
Angel wings;
And we started out like this all together at the starting line;
And we were given roman candles and brown bags of store brand
Liquor by the state;
It was really swell as all the mariposas licked the armpits of
The apple orchards we all know so well:
And our dogs howled at the fornications of so many blimps
That they absolutely got in trouble;
And I named myself as the culprit and you the princess:
I bought lingerie for you on your birthday, but I would not
Buy you a new truck; and then the moon was full and yellow:
It was like Spanish bullion sinking insouciantly through a sea
Of clouds;
And I had to touch myself and mouth off to the English professor,
But I was so drunk by then that neither I nor my muse gave
Any sort of damn.