What Do I Have Left To Prove Poem by Robert Rorabeck

All my muses cut from high school,
And now my body lags from the breathless
Irrigation cured from
The sandbags of the flooded rivers;
Or whatever they have been doing; these rivers
Like candles on your birthday floating into your
Lips as you inhale;
And it is a very sad thing, like being a city in the
Middle of this country:
You get wonderful thunderstorms and ancient cartoons,
But you really cant feel a thing,
How these oceans are pushing you with your turmoil;
And I guess you’ve never had to find out,
Or fill the concentrically fluming of the parades I
Keep for you,
As if flames lit for the fuses of your high mass;
If you’d actually wanted a lover, then we’d both have the
Very same children
Fast asleep under the over pass;
But you don’t actually love those things you can use;
And yet you still are my awful, awful, venal muse; so what
Do I have left to prove.