Warm Insociance Poem by Robert Rorabeck

A tingling in my neck: a warm insouciance,
And I think of the underaged English girl who comes
Every year to run between the evergreens we put up
To sell in South Florida: She will be coming into her
Own, and I am published in her country,
Even though she will not know: Her father, or grandfather
Is a grand thespian and a drunk, and a used car salesman,
And bankrupt. She has the lips of a terrible carp;
For in which to fit an entire sandwich, a pensive fist,
A thrusting tongue, or this, and this: The night is warm,
And either way goes a long way without her: And my ship
Is burning with effluvious energies, just by the kinetic
Energy put off my walking towards her, without even
Walking: Or, likewise, with quiet celebrating of my departure,
When I should leave without her, without touting my
Lines to her, my furtive off-hour lines which hang over and
Wait to be picked up for work, crowding what must certainly
Have been more industrious junctures: Now the bourbon
Swims like the coattails on a groom waltzing in a flooded
Night, and I drift and wander on, and place bets on if
The flirtatious French women will come so that I might deliver
A Christmas tree to their house, so they might smile and say
Things in the language Rimbaud wrote, under the gloom of
Their roof, and their beautiful daughter in the kitchen making
Eyes with her cousin, who is also beautiful; and watching their
Petit fingers move through the verdant boughs I have trimmed,
And heavy breathing, and my eyes on her, as her eyes on him.