Weeds Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Hope in abandoned fields
Fertilize our retreat:
She is sitting on a couch in
Her living room,
Using his tongue as a
Slippery treat:
The waves go on and on,
Saying everything that is
Never heard,
The greatest poets trapped in
Her panting, dying by the hour.
If she steps outside
To see him out,
She might trip over us,
She might injure herself
On our inebriated poses
Passed out,
Hoping to be picked up as strays.
Left on her windowsill,
We could bloom every hour
As she slips out of her bra
For afternoons and days,
But it is not within her
Line of sight,
The ones she never sees,
So we stay right just where we are,
And learn to grow up with the weeds.