Robert Rorabeck Poems

After two glasses of wine,
He tells me, the poems get good,
Because the body warms like cuddling,
Like an Indian blanket outside the
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If she called me a hippie,
My misquoted Tallahassee lassie,
I could have told her that those rubber tramps
Were fine gentlemen compared to me:
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The best way to do this poem,
Is to ask which exit I must take to go
To where she is,
For the highway is like a flooded river,
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Alone, like the juvenile plum tree
Crowned by hungry wings,
And the sun crawling through
My limbs like a drunk woman
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How can I show you beauty,
If you will not first give it to me with your
Tongue,
And allow this fieldtrip of baby fat
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I started drinking before the plane left
The rainy tarmac,
And after I lost count we were in Spain,
And the hills were busy
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Put away that sun:
What is she doing now,
Crawling through the cupboards?
Painting her lips after some midnight hour,
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Another day like this one, like the next.
I read canto IX of the third fitt of Alighieri’s
Paradiso, and it makes little sense,
Little sense like the way I used to sit alone between
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Ah! Let this night crumble into science,
The magnesium of her experiments put her
Hair in a spell:
In the empty pool she is chasing the rock stars
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I try my best, girl,
And perhaps have succeeded in the lesser elements,
All those materials known to man
The things we walk on and inhale:
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