Waiting For So Many Things Poem by Robert Rorabeck

What should it mean that I am here again,
Singing my praises to the open sky above the vacant
Theatre,
Or that once long ago I came from the womb of
A very fine woman;
Or that my scars are fading, becoming the beauty marks
Around the eyes of an exceptionally benevolent king.
No, I am not Mark Twain-
I have never captained on the Mississippi
At best when I was five I went into the bluesy dunes across
The street, the bed blankets for conquistadors and GI Joes
And looked at the pornography inside the junked cars
Beneath the Australian pines-
Up through that, I have appreciated women from their
Distance, fancied myself an auteur in need of
Representation; but even that doesn’t matter anymore.
The cartoon rabbit has defeated the kidnappers.
Blue birds are singing to wise old black men up in the lees.
The dead men have jumped out of the river and are jigging away
Their gold:
I have loved her through seasons of her humid forgetfulness,
Sleeping uneasily with the drooling canines;
But today, I am taking a walk outside through the caesuras
Of hills, as I am waiting for so many things.