Fancy Fib Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I can carry on without you without any
After affects; You left me for his morning sickness,
And figured I should be all alone with my scars,
Most evenings to be found reading Dickinson in graveyards;
My bicycle you didn’t give me sleeping well besides:
And this is where I am, and the sky is a wonderful tarp
Hung far over the wrought-iron fences,
And the old dead armies always to be segregated;
And even before the storm, the ants are busy masticating
Bird carcasses; and I can smell her on the storm,
And she is not you; you never where but a heirloom
Pinned on my existence, something else to go through
My door, to share my bed and pets with:
And now that is gone for coming near a decade;
Can’t you see, you never where but a thing well decorated,
Never were the sea, or the woman inside of her who I will
Always love- Never were but a thing of fancy fibs,
Sometimes beautiful if well told, but gifting nothing but time
Into the ears of your listeners- Now take his hand and proceed
Through the gentle ways by such you have been gilded:
Go into the brightly lit room and share teeth and eyes and
Family; but do not share me: I go on my own way now, homeless,
Untied to the little lies you molted, the little rings you stole:
The sky is unbound and ceaseless and I’ll drive under her even
While she turns green; in all of her darkening colors
Heedlessly pillared and threatening your busy suburban happenstance;
And the sea is uneducable; it cannot be financed-
I blow her kisses from the castille where I march duty free,
And all the ancient wanderers of her conquests roam with me,
Flipping well-filled by her salty being; we gossip through the
The living and the dead, knowing nothing transient,
and not a one of them
Hears who you are, for I would not tell them such a lie.