Basking In Her Pollens Of Her Wake Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Holdouts who are so finely implored
Pullulating like moths up in the ancient gutters-
I could have sworn this was the right way to
Her fancy,
The pitter-patter employed in layers to see how
Much she drinks,
The pills and constabularies she keeps so rich
On the nightstand by her bedside at midnight;
And if I could take her hand,
And have her to agree that I should be able to
Drink her liquors,
Then all of this squalor should burn away so that
I would become the full-bodied rehabbed gentlemen
On the cover of the magazine;
And through a bit of hard won faith and osteopathy
Rise her from the sheets and take a few practice
Runs following the trade winds of the ceiling fan,
And then off to jubilee, past all the hollow secrets
Of the hearted oak trees,
Past the silently drifting cars, and all the squash-
Past the tennis courts of teal and drooling lawyers too-
Going past the bits of absent murder,
We would never leave the cool anterooms beneath the
Deeper atmosphere, for that should be our zone,
Slowing imbibing until we understood the full exegesis,
And learned to do a good job without even broomsticks;
I could kill her alcoholic father if she wanted,
And then we’d just skate through canopies, selling
Sparklers on the fence;
And when it finally came time for her to fully change,
I’d sit out on watch and masturbate over the sheer delight of
Her chrysalis;
And when she’d had her time and forgotten me, I’d let
Her float straight off through the next archway,
Basking in her pollens of her wake.