Keeping The Faith Poem by Robert Rorabeck

In the rain,
In the end,
In the metropolitan museum,

I’ve tried to write words for us
That will not sleep,
That will stand on guard duty,
That will keep perfect account of
Useful sheep,

But I’ve come upon myself misspelled,
Laden down by fairytales,
Hoping to demystify the real,
Ending up on a dead end street,
Thumping my firsts alongside the beats,
Precursors to the counter-culture,
Flaccid meat, and groceries stores
That still close on Sundays

Jack Micheline is Harvey Silver,
Is hardly memorized.
I saw you once in the video store,
And briefly looked into your eyes,
Before I stole the prime rib from next door,
And went home with lifted blood on my lips,
Sat down behind the door and typed a little this,

For you,
For you, my darling pronoun,
And all the liquors which you excrete
While the rain goes bitter patter like little feet,
And the waves come up and give and take,
All the cliches we’re aloud to make,

I loved you because you didn’t even know what
You’ve stolen,
And I love you even more when you turn away
From my heart you’ve broken,
Like a grandfather clock outside skirted by a picnic,
The arms still soldiering on its face,
Even though the sun can clearly tell us
Its time to eat.