You Really Couldn'T Care Poem by Robert Rorabeck

You Really Couldn'T Care



And this ache is something wonderful,
And it helps me magnify the font, to make
Something profound for infants;
And how many times to I have to retry penning
For you the bouquets of sick immigrants
I can’t even spell; and, when exploring,
Would like to lay you down like bending supple
Foliage where, of course, your legs are like
Either aloe fronds, or curtains shaved beneath the
Windmill my lips to tickle and turn like giant-
Hunky lips, and by my words do you without even
Speaking to you,
While I pour the rum into my glass and dream,
And smile a little lopsided and bruised with caracoles,
And the shadows of speckled things in shallowness,
But you don’t care:
You have begun to see phantoms, haven’t you?
And I imagine those ghosts are well-suited in offices
Overlooking the city, and he may be married but you
Are still his surf, I imagine that you are; and that you
Have many friends, and not one of them will wake up
Early and read by just awakening traffic lights my
Mystified dreams of you; because they still come this
Way, come when I call them, and with the liquor,
Come because I haven’t yet moved to find another
Muse,
Subtle and falling like gossamer in my hand,
Dewed by moths and their midshipmen,
And by that newer flesh bare children and more publishable
Dreams, while all the time the seas are rising, quietly,
Horny and out to get you, and cover you up with effluvious
Satins I can see you through,
Naked and capitulating, because your are lackadaisical
In your games, petting terrapin,
Lunching with orchids in your hair,
Smiling halfway insouciant because
You don’t care: you really couldn’t care.

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Robert Rorabeck

Robert Rorabeck

Berrien Springs
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