Like An Erogenous Handshake Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Could I kiss you for a better kind,
Force words into you like the press of tongue;
It has been literally years since I French-kissed
An orchid counter-clock wise,
Because she let me know, because she liked his
Car and the way he was hung;
Is the sting more of a tickle, now because
The park is closed, there are drunken men moaning
On the swings, pulling teeth,
There are alligators unclothing in the torpid
Green changing rooms, I suppose.
When he lays on top of you, how does it make
You feel, to not have to be force-fed,
To take it in strides like a professional baseball
Player- I’ve been writing plays with your legs
In the center lines for so long. When I was younger
I let Indians kill me for my grandmother in between
Papier-mâché snowflakes hung beneath the
Australian pines, before I knew that I did not
Know you, or that I’ve never seen the shaded
Complexion of the areolas under your nocturnal
Shirt, or that I won’t measure their circumference
With the bone of my index finger to the knuckle;
I’ve written over five-hundred poems this year and
Published only one, but I am an author, and I signify
You and put in my habitat with glass walls and shampoo:
I hang you on my wall for a jack-off symphony,
Echoing the high-heeled affair along the piss-stained hall,
But I’d have a little bit of pride, if you’d let me
Put my right hand firmly to the base of your neck,
And hold you there like an erogenous handshake, sometimes
The way red buds in a garden, what the bees get at
I’d get with you, because I’ve published one poem
This year, which amounts to first base,
A little bit of foreplay, ring around the rosy, to
Taste your taste buds while looking you in the eye
With endearing honesty- When you see the novel,
To lie you down and travel back and forth without
Much reason besides the tourism of your few landmark
Destinations.