Undressing Poetry Poem by Robert Rorabeck

This poetry is undressed,
And her eyes stare through the window,
Stare down the long horizon,
Eclipsing the subtle bergs, the pawn shops,
The slithering roadways,
The abandoned farms; ignoring the fried-chicken
Drive-thrus, the dirty yellow laundry-mats,
The speak easies, and the bright billboards;
This poetry has a thing for you,
And watches you lying on the coverless bed,
Matted with dog hair and lazing delinquencies,
Drool and spot on rum,
As the grass shivers like strange children
Congregated underneath the molten lights,
As the day sinks,
As the earth recedes into a ball of shadowy
Masks,
As your dry lips crack contemplatively,
And your briar patch of a brain stumbles further
Into the steaming swamp of cold blooded serenades,
Through the mottled cypress jeweled with
The forgotten memories of cicadas eager to move
On- There she sees you typing her trifles,
The microscopic barbs which tingle her mammography,
And sets her mind to concentration for a little while,
As if on this page you had succeeded in
Scribbling up to her, a tiny dimple she didn’t
Know she had, and thus peak her interest infinitesimally.