Wounded In A Crooked Garden Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Wounded in a crooked garden
While the ants make love
And sculptures of each of your breasts;
And I let the homeopathic conquistadors
Enter me,
If only to displease housewives and their
Grotesque habits of
Natural selection;
And I always knew that it wouldn’t be me
Who entered her demure;
Not me; and I don’t have a house,
And I don’t have a bicycle- and I tell myself
I am practicing delayed gratification,
But now there is so little time,
Even the furthest stars are turning away,
Having caught the perfumes off one of our
More adventurous satellites,
And all the girls from high school who were
Any good are now entrained,
Higher up in heels and tall vehicles;
And none of this is good, I don’t know:
They are all getting down on their knees to pleasure
New ovens,
And it is no wonder there are so many pies
Cooling on their windowsills,
Enjoying the steady traffic, the spikenard wheels
Of mackerels, but not a one for me,
Not even a flaxen haired older sister for me.