Very Well Sure Poem by Robert Rorabeck

They have some good gods in Colorado,
Just misplaced off summits where the tourists
Ski,
Drink wine and palaver on to dinner time:
You have to do a little work to see them gods,
And hung over,
Your girlfriend cheating still over the old Spanish
Bones of conquistadors
All the way the f$ck down in Florida:
You can see dem gods,
Fornicating in dem briar patches of clouds,
Tying lightning to make some animals
The rain produces
As the others die: I was even then thinking of Sharon,
Coming down from Elbert,
Having made love to Mount Massive the same day:
And no one else was thinking about me,
And I was getting half done with my master’s in
Tallahasee
That I guess I always knew I would never use,
But I have it now,
As I circulate the segregated graveyards of dust,
And there isn’t even a single flower,
And she is married, and Sharon is married too
And has a beautiful daughter:
I guess I always knew that was how it always was,
That these girls had better things to do;
And I was how I always was,
Not exactly a tourist, but still excited as a dog to see
Those sights,
Where they hang their braziers up after closing times,
After midnights,
And their jiggling zoos breast fed and man fed
And dog fed too:
And their gods, of course, I have seen them ludely through
Their open ended dungeons in the sky,
Making new flowers and never having to die
Like the tourists of sweet nothingness whose fat
Bald heads still sweat in inconsequential sport
Miles beneath where I am mortally wounded
And very well sure to die.