Robert Rorabeck Poems

As I was eating a bowl of rice,
What she was doing was kissing
Another man,
Eyes the sensing pistons, lips the
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I think I would like a house with an orange tree,
And neighbors who never grow old,
And laugh and kiss openly on the patio;
Already retired, now they drink beer and smoke,
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Strangeness of unaccounted numbers slithers
Through the unmowed grass,
Through another day of monsooning summer
Under the mobile of a smiling moon,
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You deserve better words than mine,
Angled in soft lies, like prehistoric trout found
In the oily conservation of their brief lives:
I flow upstream for you with all I can,
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Here: the scars are awkward:
They prevent romance, but not love;
They prevent a meaningful conclusion to
Those erection which go up like cerulean tents
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The work is really about the work, they sing:
The young punks with Mohawks and hair-lips.
Tree frogs jeweled in heliotrope, they sing. The
Epitaphs they give these graveyards in mass, our song,
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An hour past noon,
Fingers itching from the caffeine,
Gun in the bottom drawer with the bullets,
But there isn’t going to be a fight.
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A rhyme, a dime, a talking fool:
I step outside and in the insouciant yard my
Pen*s jewels:
By my lead, my dogs go out and scent the
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There is no subtly, so this is not art,
The pornography of a greeting card can say
I love you as coolly as an apathetic banker,
Thusly I greet you again, like a stranger out
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