Without Any Sense Of Direction Poem by Robert Rorabeck

For awhile now in a world of
Fay gutters where I have to sport-
Even when I get up to mew, to drive
Seemingly for recreation,
To pick up fast food so swiftly that they
Never see how I have become;
To drive around intoxicated, to fall in with
Bums and alligators and all they have
Masticated;
And the sea, she is over there:
She is just over there, reticulating in her
Creamy nest:
She goes on in every direction. She is a real
Resort;
But we don’t go to her in prayer.
We don’t bed with her, even though she is always
In our minds,
And she seems to be filling our body like a vase,
Softly trickling inside the mould that has the contours
Of a little boy who has grown old and
Despondent from too many movies, from too many
Misbeliefs in the tomorrows of his beauty;
We can climb up the orchard’s perverted navel,
And try to get a sight of her and all her cerulean pinwheels,
Like gesticulations of wrong fire,
Or a colony of beautifully eyed windmills; but then it
Would be to see how truly far away she is:
How many children and husbands she has, and the jobs
They have created together,
And how they love each other; it would make us fall so
Far as to fall down without a chance of resurrection;
For now let our lonely pieces come together and fit
The best they can,
And move around and shake hands, curling
Slightly in false sympathy at the obligatory dinner party
Without any sense of direction.