With New Poems Poem by Robert Rorabeck

With new poems, a fever of under developed
Skeletons—
Sea monkeys in a petri dish—
That believes itself a storm—
My dog walks into my room
Underneath the ceiling fan—
Across the threshold,
My wives cries not to drink too much,
But this house is only a thousand feet—
There is not enough air in its lungs to breathe
In and out—
A swordfish on some old gods mantle
Caught out of time
Like poor old Gatsby—
His dreams of golden heifers, the same way
I thought of you—
I still have the stem of that first rose
That you returned to me—
Now it has mostly fallen from the trellis
Of this yellow house,
But the sun is shining above the pines—
And the airplanes are singing beneath of her,
Their breasts out—
They are just as drunk as I am,
And they are not sad that they aren’t going home.