Waiting For Her To Get On Home Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Scarred in all too little ways- waiting for you
To come around, kicking balls,
Your jaw so well outlined in the pullulating rind of
Sun:
And I have cannon balls, and bathroom passes,
And reasons to believe that I am a straight shot of a
Conquistador,
Reason to believe that this last little bit might survive,
Even while the flamingos fart,
And I untie the expensive lace of another flirt,
And you don’t come,
And Disney World is such a trip- decapitated, flash-
Bulbed, waltzing now with the last of the senior
Class still flecking the promenade like the lazy shells of
All the palindromes and paladins:
I do this to check the rigging- To hear the whispers of
Xs of buried wealth, to pretend to stream out on an inflatable
Raft, to take my kindergarten and all its stolen goods out
Underneath some brightly pollinated flowers-
You know the ones, and show the poor boy the topless dwarf,
The stranded lady out beside the insignificant sea:
And all I am doing is just the runaway slop of several distant
Singers whose minds are not their own,
Who laugh and sway in a sauntering chorus to which I conduct
Them while their mother is out shopping,
And I am well and horny waiting for the return of anything
Feminine with shopping bags of hash and cheese,
While my beanstalk grows and grows, mostly unjustly
Unpublished, waiting for her to get on home.