Wealthy And Amused Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Nothing can be wounded eternally-
Eventually, left out in the cold it dies:
It dies and sinks quite peacefully into the sea;
It grows sedentary, unseemly irate- it takes up law,
And fails to appreciated the high stamens of
Stewardess’ flirtations on the busy crafts of their show;
But I keep on doing this as my some sort of
Dysfunctioning reveille:
I salute all my pitiful paper crafts to the fashion of
Your warm body pressed against his,
Drinking rummy bouquets- I suppose he has never
Done this for you,
Trying to drink your contractual immortality,
Or driven alone and screamed halfway across the mortality
Of our patriotisms:
And I am a wreck, but looking down the coral is so beautiful
It is not a pain to die:
And I will die for you- Bare the brunt of his spume,
And all that reckless wealth busily wasted to persuade your
Heliotropic demons- I still love you underneath the effluvious
Buses,
And I have summated mountains for you, and realized the
Bastardization of his angels- and grown more distant and more
Scarred for you:
And I have grown to appreciate lightning storms and pearl handled
Firearms- tucked into the double entendre of your silk purse;
And I would dam the Atlantic for you,
Or flood the Pacific across our manifest destiny, and put two
Mammals of each sex behind each kiss pressed into your adultery,
So stop selling what you consider news,
And look to me,
I who am wealthy and amused.