Well-Sated Menagerie Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I take refuge in fathomless scars-
With my dogs, or alone, I sleep in cars,
Or bare-naked in the upper Peninsulas of Michigan,
Or I hide out in the corner of English class
And wait for the band to march me out to lunch,
And the courtyard is bricked with red clay and the bones
Of ancient baseball players. Where I call her from this
Tomb, she doesn’t answer; I drive along her window and
Watch her open mouthed, sharing her secrets with an
Innocent boy. There is no joy, but it rains, and the
Streets are pensive, and well matured; Inside their church,
The housewives are fully breasted and putting on reckless
Plays, trying on lingerie. Some times they become so light hearted,
They float up into the rafters. Their lipstick stains the spotlights,
And the waves echo repeatedly like guns going off like footsteps
Running from a suicide down a hallway; but she isn’t there
Anymore, and the center is hollow and put on, the hall is empty and there
Is no one there to bear my cup, blond-headed, eyes like hungry
Song-birds. I be a champion alone. I slay a dragon one handed,
But go without reward. She is in Colorado selling wine, perchance
By the cleverly laconic bone structure which got her so many boyfriends,
And eventually a husband who drapes across her warmly when it
Snows. And the tourists move around her, like socialites in a maze,
Entranced by her addictive perfections, seeing what I used to see,
Such a magnificent playground full of clever arcs. Now I cannot speak
The innocent questions I used to ask telepathically to her like this
Across the classroom, foraging; but from the drifting continents,
I try to do the same; she brings the glass to her lips, and drinks homeopathically; there is time proceeding in everything, marching like a
Bollero, like a canal I have dredged up to my doorstep the way a little boy
Plays in the sand, imploring the waves to turn into faithful pets, in a
Well-sated menagerie following his footsteps all the way home.