In The Furrows And The Littered Ruts Poem by Robert Rorabeck

We’re in Parkland, which trumps even Wellington:
The people are bigger and smile affluently: They drive around
In crashing space-ships, or they have entire China sets
For knees and joints. I swear, one can get rich off them with
Just tips: I have! I am rich enough to swoon into a blue-collar
Home, to drink domestic beer, to clown around with niggard-sure
Dwarfs with bruised lips in funny cars: I could never see me
Parents again, or serve the middle-class. How swell, to swoon
Like that, to give up on her eyes, to downcast into Chevrolets:
I loved, I loved her until the store was closed and she grasped
His crotch while looking at me; she took it out and slung it around-
It smelled like horrible perfume; it had the right of away, so long
And it bent in neither direction, but I could go away from them:
I do not need to look her in the eyes either way, to see what she
Is packing. Suited in my scars, I could go down these jaunting
Truths, if there is any salvation in my apocrypha, to sojourn
Into the jubilant cadence of clean pools and baseball diamonds
After hours in the dun and allergic mists; to rhyme the way I choose,
With my dogs howling, busting up the night. Oh so, she might say,
Looking at me either approvingly or with condescension, the foreplay
Of that ancient rut: I wouldn’t give her my two cents or the permanence
Of such a high-class holocaust: But let her come in for two more weeks,
To see what I might get off of her and that husband of bitter-circumstance,
And I will see what it might prove; For I love her, and how she goes,
like the rest of us, skipping like lip-blown tinsel through the day,
Only to end not so very long from now, in the furrows, and the littered
Ruts.