Two Cherries Poem by Robert Rorabeck

These psalms, these psalms, they are holding
Mass for better Catholics,
Mowing couples swing like censers, smoky, unreal,
The dying Italian bourgeoisie;
I can’t even spell them, but they make me so horny;
And look at my scars, and the cornices,
The bad places in the ceiling- The church bells ringing-
You can see the silver archway like a monument
To the religion she keeps ringing in the air,
Picking cottons and her tears- The Mississippi,
Gambling, sponge cake: I have two dogs who scrape off
All the paint of my new apartment,
Which seems to personify my own new scars,
And girls from high school, lingerie models calling to
Me seeded and well fed by the sugar tooth for my look warm
Pornography: This is the way we go, but it is getting worse,
And they are all superficially married,
And superficially beautiful of course: And I want to be just like
Them, I want my horse to win: I want common stanzas,
And lukewarm rhyme schemes, and my teams to win:
I want to teach school again:
The city rings like church-bells, like reindeer bells from her
Nipples, and she dances just enough to let me know she’s
Jogged to the door, though her shift is over
but is not coming in, not even for two dollar bills rubbed together:
The point is meaningless, the sky so ff%cking beautiful and
Never meaningfully fulfilled,
The city rolls over, two cherries then bust.