Robert Rorabeck Poems

Days building up their games in quiet rooms
On the tired green carpet where I’ve had at myself,
Almost leaving trails like slime,
My overbite the little indentation of the beak of
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Lost in the waves of busses,
And now she is pregnant and the most likely
Parable- well, words anyway:
And she flows through graveyards like the
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Housewives like naves,
Like low strung truants sleeping in their backyards
Of days,
Strung out and as drooling as mastiffs on the pretty
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Marmoset underneath the mountain,
Taking shelter in the rain- how pretty you look
When no one else is at home,
Underneath the empty house- the evergreens
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Pall bearers of smoke charms running at a
Distance,
Through the seems and tresses of the pool-yards
And landfills of
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I very much appreciate breathing in the shadowed
Real-estate of your distance:
All the cars seem to be buzzing upward satisfied in their
Air-conditioning, while I get quotes on house insurance:
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I’ll go back home to the love joys
In the sessions of hypnotism in their kindergartens,
Breathing like goldfish in paper bags
With their hands on the handlebars of plastic bicycles
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Trucks burn through the forest
Where wolves sleep:
The sky is blue; the carport is green and there
Are virgins in both of those places:
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Her water colored bicycle has many dreams
Of pin-ball, and ping pong, and pool;
I used to sit across class from her and pretend
That I could know her in a swimming-pool
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How innocence wanders the innocuous highway,
How, bearded, he dreams of the thigh he’s
Never touched,
As he sleeps in the weeds like a disposed general
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