While The Wine Glasses Shatter Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I can smell my belly-button coming undone;
Its what turned my ex-girlfriend off me,
So she went to other resorts,
Exclusively Jewish with belly-buttons not
Deep enough to attract the dogs;
And I have begun to think about that more,
How the skin is like an entire sheet that wraps
Up something otherwise unsavory;
And how my skin is coming off, and I am
Becoming the monster outside of society,
Not invited into the loci of heroes and their
Cupbearers, the fine locks, the powdered breasts:
People who dress up on Friday night and pay for
Dinners, and smile, and say now if the food was good,
Or if it was not good they find someone to replace it
With better food. I cannot say that I know these people,
But I imagine each of their belly buttons, tightly wound,
Attributing to their prosperous accords. Tomorrow I
Will be able to fit two fingers into my belly button,
In a month my fist, so that by New Years, my stomach will
Be nothing more than a rippling sheet with a frayed hole,
And beneath it all that stench, the moaning wound,
And the scars I have there from rock climbing and
Chickenpox, they will fly away with the rest of me when
There is a strong wind, if I forget about the dangers of the
Beach: I will go with the kites, and my major organ will fly
On its own, and the rest of me will sit down and ponder
A grave that doesn’t yet exist, while the wine glasses shatter,
As the women scream.