What You Are Making Them Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Swamp of metropolis and limos:
I am just trying to meet my quota as some Cinderella’s
Coach turns back into a pumpkin,
And the mice eat the cheese:
And I sit and watch with my dirty baseball cap well
Pulled down,
So that I’ll continue fitting in, and won’t be exposed:
It’s always good to wear a baseball cap when you are out,
And male,
And don’t want to be found out- That one of your ears
Should be missing for the busy waitress who just
Doesn’t give a d$mned:
And I am in the Montemarte district of West Palm Beach-
And I have something like three thousand pumpkins,
And I haven’t yet given one away to a pretty girl
With piss brown eyes-
You know, but if that mother comes back, I really want to
Buy her a bicycle:
And when I’m finished, I want to masturbate alone
And then die into a truck or somewhere,
And the nights are well shut off and balmy and the crickets
Are always complaining-
And I can’t stop thinking about womb deep wildflowers-
Girls who live so far away,
Even slightly above the earth in observatories of mountain
Napes:
They sell wine and when you run your finger around their
Glass, they sing without even having to acknowledge
What you are making them.