What I Had Left To Sell Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I do not deserve to live here,
Happening like the mishap of Conquistadors
Through the despotic dunes,
Sweating it out inches from the pornographies
Of the blue saber tooth,
Each of their fat bellies swinging impotent,
Pruning swords,
So chock full of long shafted arrows that they
Will soon be shiskabobs;
And there will be hurricanes and taboo,
And Narvaez will eat all of his horses somewhere
Off the Gulf all the way west
Of Tallahassee,
And the rest of them will only survive through good
Wholesome cannibalism,
Which will bring us straight up to the new and
Holy Séances of your eyes:
I worked and strutted Christmas trees all day long,
And then a drank a beer and tried to write this
Think,
While you just sold me milk and pastries and
Then drove away,
Like Erin did so many years ago after she had eaten
All of my flowers:
She went straight back in, legs and all into her shell
Hole,
Saying as she did so and all the way,
That she loved me, that she loved me,
And that she would be around later and maybe buy
What I had left to sell…. Maybe.