In The Velvet Ballroom Of Your Hapless Soul Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I do not call this house my house.
How does a crustacean choose its home;
Is that its mission from an early age
To set out and beat the worm-
When I was packed posthaste into this flesh
And bone
With nothing to say about it, and all of its
Lonely wounds:
Rather, I can hear the cicadas like alley cats,
And you know the sky is blue but only sleeping,
And I’d like to set out right now and leave
This cenotaph, let other creatures wriggle through
The open house and reanimate it into
Rich bouquets of adulterated spume;
And leaving all that has haunted me, enter you with
No presumption,
That leggy ballroom- the sumptuously busted promenade
How you go straight out into your workaday- and make
Love, and call out names, and play-
Your arms would be my swing set, your tongue my
Spongy bed- Your eyes the windows burning across
All that I was meant to see,
And I would once hinder you, seeing how you made love,
Spelunking in your echoes free of charge,
All your juicy spaces- your pomegranate hordes,
Your butcher’s holiday would be a great wilderness for
My spirit to explore,
Or dancing with you in the velvet ballroom of your
Hapless soul.