Into A Game Where I Do Not Belong Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Seesaws in my liver- I go to the flea market underneath
The overpass to flume:
On Easter, both sides of my face sell nothing to her:
A girl from Columbia with tattoos buys two of
My grasshoppers; they are the only thing
I sell-
And I go back to her, holding out my hands like the weariness
Of oleander-
How will they come for her again, with the airplanes touching
Down just to save face.
Will this be my art for another dark night, spilling my guts
In a juvenile tantrum of scarred and lonely
Bachelorhood- My dog rests beside me in a house
That needs a wife;
Its months since I’ve been to see a woman, but the day throws
Over her shadows, accentuating her voluptuous green,
And I think of my muse- tiny and brown,
Cast like a marble into a game where I do not belong.