Junkyard Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Every mad bit of courage has a name.
I can stay here and love you, but who am I?
I won’t drink liquor unless I find a job,
So I may never drink liquor again- the way this
Is going-
For how can I find a job without a tomb, that fine
Piece of marble to lay my head,
The way a hummingbird denotes its invisible young,
Like a pebble spit on by a bit of spume- Wouldn’t
It be better to skip out of town?
To ride the rails, I suppose. To get romantic out in
The open with no roof, just both of my dogs,
Jogging in my hobo shoes- Go down the side of
Florida and recognize all those haunts,
Where its warm enough to live outside your room,
To stop by and see all those girls I really want,
To smoke out beneath the same old aqueducts
Passed out in the shade the same as some decades before,
The other kids waiting for the bus, the lions roar;
And we just caress ourselves out into the land of nod,
And float on our backs the same way as the otters showed,
And crack macadamias and soft shells terrapins
With no use for canoes,
Go uninvited along the backsides of the easements where
The housewives are busily sunning topless with their sisters in law,
Reading south Florida crime novels;
Looking up they bight their lips, wondering what good
Use they’ll find for us; approaching, as I figure I should.