What I Meant By Being Sincere Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Let me nuzzle up to your gorgeous golf
Courses,
To the bows in your swayed esplanade:
Let me ruin endings and
Airplanes for you:
Let me talk straight out; Oh, gosh, I’d like
To say your name,
But who are you listening to now,
The baby tugging your long list of satin
Accomplishments;
I’ll just sit here and refrain as one of your hounds.
You help me put down the gun:
And I can pretend for you to be on a ride in the sea,
Each of your sisters nibbling our gunny sides,
My toned biceps scrimshawed with chorus
Lines from Tex-Arkana; say that you remember me
Now, some gumshoe out lost around the
Terrible borders of high-school,
And I’ll gallop you all the faster to the dinner of
Scallops and sweet disaster,
But you must tell me first what it is you really want.
You are so gallant, yourself: I think you must have
Chosen your husband with much discretion,
And so you care so very little for this flagrant bouquet of
Passion;
But I won’t yet be shut: but stamp my fingers softly in
Your pink hutches, and use my tongue to get you along
As a crutch: and I’ll sail gingerly along the whimsy
Of my hunches,
And bring such pestilent rich flowers to your dimmed window
After brunch, that you will be so well and flustered,
That maybe you’ll let me in and on the sheets of rippled
Plate tectonics, back my front up to your haunches,
And whisper your name,
And curl a lock of dampening hair around your ear,
Hoping that by some apple-orchard or at least dinner,
You will remember what
I meant by being sincere.