In That Catholic Miracle Show Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I keep on doing this, beating my drum in an
Out of season high school,
Misspelling, picking my teeth, farting into old
Shoes- If they could see me, I would
Be arrested,
But everyone is out at their own particular sport,
Everyone with a recessive light bulb attracting
Bugs and vampires in their own heads-
I used to lounge the neighborhood,
I used to have real fun and fast food and nostalgia-
I visited her at Winn Dixie, and bought her a cheap
Bouquet I gave to her after paying her at
The check out table, the ingénue with scabies-
With a bag of condoms in the trunk of her car,
With fishnet stocking, and an all night pass to trouble.
Looking up on the stage where she presupposed her
Dark-haired rhymes, I was getting color, and it was
Pretty near perfect in that Catholic miracle show,
And it could all be beautiful, and we could have walked
Out to the sound of church bells,
Except the rains would never come- under her feet
No flowers would grow, and when I was too fast asleep
To show, she kept her store open for other boys,
Like a Chinese Dragon with rug burns- so many of them,
Both fast and slow, powwowing, clapping their lips
In a pinstriped finishing school taking numbers in and out
Of her all night suburban window.