Just To Indian Give Poem by Robert Rorabeck

They have poems that famish and then lie with the
Gods that they want in
The shallows, where flames cantankering over monuments flatted
By the unconstructions of the forever nubile sea:
Black when it wants to be,
And as deep as a muse’s eyes: Oh, Alma- your daughter is having
A birthday in four days,
And you made love to me today and then spent a hundred dollars
On your hair:
It is probably more than my mother has spent in her entire
Life time:
And you belong in the vestibules of Mount Olympus with her,
Or somewhere,
Spilling your time, while I spill my cups every night, and they
Headily sing to me of all of my wishes,
In crippled operas of hobos that wait up for you all night and then
Try and panhandle a couple of quarters,
Just to Indian Give wishes from my wishing well.