Your Coquettish Supposition Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The wind curls the hair of the girl who he loves,
Verbatim- Sometimes he come leaping like a tiger from
The poem above the great Atlantic Basin,
Knocking into sturdy walls of coquina: I am so sad,
Because she will not have him. The pagan wind, he is no
Catholic- He does away with crèches along the bible-studies
Near the shore, he thrashes mangroves, and he is apoplectic,
Which is a study word, remember it:
And in all his bags of tricks he is seldom recognized when he
Is subtle, when he is fondling candle’s flames like a careful
Father over his married daughter making full grown coitus on
That bed with so many dime sized stains, and so many quarter
Sized stains when the sex is better; but here he has forgotten his
Carefulness over that daughter, and he goes growling down the highway
Which is also careless and the sun is in its azure tenement and
The knives have all be tossed into the opaque waterways and
Estuaries, and all the widows have laid subtly bare-chested,
Have lit candles hoping to begin a paragraph of forbearance
Near their bedrooms, hoping that he might part the palmettos
Outside their lonely windows like a thief or a thespian;
But the wind is done being a prop, a handyman who ushers commercial
Airliners over the heads of bubbly faced infants in the roar of
Humid shelters. None of this is a thing to him. Half feral, he
Dropped out in tenth grade and he is coming towards her like a
Track star on cocaine, or nothing more than this trick of a poem,
My insouciantly penniless occupation. The rest, sweet dear, is left
In the hands of your coquettish supposition.