While They Serve Their Handsome Men Their Pretty Dinner Poem by Robert Rorabeck

All this gaff for no limelight-
Slipping into the shadows of the lockjaw
Curb,
Waiting for her to leave and for it to rain:
I suppose she kissed me once in the opening act
Of this awful long winded play-
Corn-pone or cobblestone,
Looking forlornly through rain thrashed windows-
At the steaming plumbs, the plump and steamy
Housewives with red rocket ships tucked between
Their thighs-
Just literary ejaculation, the stage craft of a weary
Soul licking his lips to get to Venus-
But isn’t even virile enough to erect the tent of
His blue phallus:
There are names I love, and girls too in all kinds of
Winter;
In all kinds of winter I am perpetually looking in
While they serve their handsome men their
Pretty dinner.