Without Sunset And No End To Cross Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I don’t have anything left,
Riding on the coattails of grandpa’s pantheism,
I plagiarize the sea,
But I still can’t stare at pretty girls;
Their eyes get in the way of their souls,
They hang out in front of vanities and sneeze:
They have so many children-
Attending to all the homesick passengers,
Giving the free milk and liquors; oh how their legs
Sway, playground of the sky,
Happenstance of my eager truancies. I nudge my
Buddies; say, lets make movies out of their expenditures,
Get them while we can, before they go home nuzzling
Husbands in sweetly cleaned beds, honeybears-
Ornithologists sick off of categorizing saccharine feeders;
And then, until I have to go back to school,
Give them my little things, this way and that, a little-pitter
Pat, as they slap their dough and twirl them over head,
Their infants lunching on their sweet bread;
And I would lay her still across the sky, like a highway
Without sunset and no end to cross.