What Must Be Real Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Oh,
God of cancer, god of spikenard,
Don’t you remember me and all of my drugs? Yes,
Your remember me and me in my speakeasy tumult with all of
My thugs, getting dizzy
Getting pretty while the mountains snugged:
While the mountains hugged like long lost sisters and then they
Jugged:
Yes, you know, bar-muse, just how exactly that they have jugged,
And the night is pretty; and the night is dizzy;
And maybe the night is even Spanish for rainbow all alongside
The river walks and all of those defeated forts
Now abandoned except for all of those yard lights and all of those
Football games: getting things done,
And turning things out: and now look at all of her beautiful children
Spume-ing like exceptional windfalls,
While the airplanes drool downwind turning, and turning,
Trying again to get a scent of what is real, what must be real.