Oh, Yeah, Yeah, Yeah Poem by Robert Rorabeck

They’ve bought a beautiful house- she
And all her beautiful friends.
I don’t know what to do but to write another
Disposable poem,
Toilet paper to dab sweat and excrement,
Soon I’ll be in her neighborhood setting up
Christmas trees,
Though its impossible that I shall ever deliver one
To her living room;
And I begin and end my truancies in expectable
Ways, always the man who hoped for
And got nothing, but they humored him and
Let him garland the tree: His ex-girlfriend’s house
Cost $230,000- If he finish up next year,
Licking off the boot-prints and shell-fish of
His paternity he’ll have that out right
And be able to move into the tourisms of Saint
Augustine- He’ll be able to diadem them in a way,
Which would be kind of like growing in the monsters
In Beowulf’s fairytale- He would rather love the
Bartenders in the ghettos in the savannahs of North-central
Florida- those goyem without much debt, without
Secular holidays, who are always ready to fill the story-
Telling glass with her forgetful eyes; and I am really
Almost done, even though she has allowed me to
Believe that not only passable neighbors can live up and
Down the rows of Siamese houses, each with their own
Crenulated swimming pool, like a frosted birthday cake,
Really hoping that is extemporaneous file will crash-
No one will read it anyways, underneath the witches or
The tall implanted palms- She will go to work in the morning,
She will attend Hallel quite presumptuously;
Thank whatever god crawled out of the canal, she will never
Read this poem- She will brush her hair and smile for
Her routine and secular morays; they will have a house together,
A mortgage, and children to rays,
But I will never have to go down on her again, to wake up
And realize that I am not in love,
Though the mezuzah is still drilled to the door,
The Catholics, under swell juniper, are still putting on
Their passion plays.