Worshipping The Beauties From The Backside Of My Canoe Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Looking at the dog-star adds planets to your
Soul; but it does no good,
She’s still selling her wines deep in the snow,
After the avalanche has fallen,
And school is over, and it is raining dampening
The bees onto the snouts of dyspeptic alligators,
When I used to sneak up on roofs
And look down the blouses of the sweet
Administrators: Now, I don’t believe in god
Anymore, and I’m even losing faith in beautiful
Actresses: They show us terrible car accidents
Between classes. I still drink and grease pigs
And light off quarter sticks of dynamite:
I masturbate underneath the splash of shade from
Palms- I dream I have better friends. My shoes
Don’t fit. The black kid laps me at tryouts.
I sleep in Dave’s fan- No one cares,
And when I get days off, long uncaring days, I slip
Through the canals, floating on my back or in a canoe,
I search out the housewives and their sisters in law
Sunbathing topless in the sparse orchards, slipping
On the slick grasses of the easement, they pretend they
Are going down, and I pretend too- to be an otter,
Lapping at their breasts with their eyes, the mammalian
Confections, or I pick up feral baseball games when it
Is almost midnight and all the tourists are home in their
Hotel rooms sick- That is when she casts her industrious spells,
Sleeping under her ceiling fans like spiral galaxies,
And I lie back and dream how deeply she’ll never know
Loosing the equilibriums to discover the beauties that don’t
Really care how you worship them,
As long as you worship, and I do.