While My Heart, The Slave Poem by Robert Rorabeck

They have some plan to cut the uncircumcised cake
Far back into an estuary or a glade
In the forest underneath the overpass where the bums and winos
Are all passed out from doing the same exact thing
On furniture your Lebanese carpenters have
Discarded:
And there is a plutonium factory here at the end of the hall
After so many windows that they have shut down and turned into
A fireworks factory:
So all now they turn out is whistling cuckoos that end with a
Bang into the night anyways,
While you have taken off all of our clothes and slipped into
The sheets in the grotto of your bed,
Already well supposing that you are some man’s muse:
In a warm and quiet place, as steadfast as a grave:
Their he rests beside you: your jailor: Alma- while my heart,
The slave.