Magnet To Its Metal Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Magnet To Its Metal



These days turn around the way young girls
Win their medals,
Or, children, squealing, go around the playground
In may-poled meadows,
And if you said I was lucky, I would slap you,
But if you refused to speak to me, I would kiss you,

So when young men are not being poets,
They are picking flowers,
And when I am not thinking of you,
I am a quieted liar fondling seashells made scattered
On the gravel road’s nostalgia,
And counting the swell avenues young mothers live
Down letting their infants tug and suckle,
Their fathers far away with tight and twisted knuckles,

Some days I have walked adjacent to you,
Like lines on adjoining pages, neither understanding nor
Reading the other, but when the book is closed
They fall together, the silken honeymoons the silkworm
Weaves in woolly tents hung from the lips of trees,

And if I could show you where the swing-set huddles,
Cuddled in the foreheads of northern states where Shakespeare’s
Specter mutters, I would paint my fingers against your back,
And push your upward in subtle ellipses to where you could
Hear the great trees whisper,
And watch the hoary storm clouds muddle;

If you were to be my darling, I would be your doodle,
And feed you penny canny like a humming bird, and tuna
Noodle strudel; And we could lounge long evenings in
The graveyards conversing with the lovely shadows,
And faintly, I would touch you, and then look away across
The lakes of common trouble, but readily return to you,
Hypnotized in a waning daydream, a magnet to its metal.

COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Joshua Nealy 16 August 2008

Starts off slow...best i have read yet

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Robert Rorabeck

Robert Rorabeck

Berrien Springs
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