Nights Of Sleepless Love Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Almost real dead men sit best by Sally-
They are polite but losing their hair and genesequa,
But are quite captivated by the telly;
When I am around them, say on Sundays,
I am almost real like them
And their gray mustaches are pets, like
Fury caterpillars that have passed their long winters
Refusing to surrender into a gayer metamorphosis:
Now I will be one of them,
For the parts of the evening, even while jogging
Under the beautiful though lazy clouds,
And the cul-de-sacs are warm and easy,
And one house even has an antique fire-engine,
And all of the homes have a beautiful woman,
Like a vase placed amidst the orange trees of
The green yard’s luxury,
And alligators in the backyard slows;
Where time grows feebly in the absence of numbers,
There where the city tapers, they drink from their tumblers,
Where orchids peel like slender ruminids,
And flies as blue as bashful jewels practice sweet effluviance;
Where there are sometimes family reunions,
And sometime torpid faithfulness, but the moccasin’s
Venom is always punctual against the throat of the careless
Though speckled doe,
Things our actors almost see from out across the
Ping-pong table in their backyard patios;
The almost real dead men with drinks on key,
Those players of this evening tranquil on their houses in
The deepening ambience cycling the twisting roads;
Tonight I will be a part of them, and the ice will tinkle
In the glass with my liquors and cranberry juice,
As we sit best beside our aunt Sally, and not look askance,
But at the spinning wheels and the leggy blond models
Of the telly’s game shows,
As outside the evening devolves into a nocturnal serenade,
Scaled and poisoned by a deadlier romance.