Pack Lunch Poem by Robert Rorabeck

A god of higher pharmacies,
You live in a tree house to come down
At night and steal the ground.
Born into what you have become,
A feminist professor smiling tinfoil,
You give even minor poets Bs,
But when you fart it smells like
Popuri and fireworks,
Though you make no excuses for
The way you’ve made sex with the
Legends of your field, the mostly bigamist
Dons who are light headed and incontinent,
But fall on you like the rutting rams
In the highest basins of Colorado and
Football fields;
You are a sommelier of the wine box,
A school boy crush on network t.v.,
When I was the only one in your Wisconsin
Classroom to defend Holden Caulfield,
Booed out of the leftwing successions
Of good housekeeping and waxed legs,
I rode my moted bicycle home whistling
To make love to the dazzling Judaica
Of the micaed excavation sight in the
Middleclass ghettos of average grammar;
She was a tune, and you a meatball submarine
From which Plathe gassed herself to escape
The meaning- both in relations to your
Family’s east coast pallbearer upbringing,
The gated stride and odorless wind over
The saddest classroom of gutless rhododendron;
I packed my own brain in a paper sack for lunch,
And ate every curve and squiggle up deep
In the expensive landscaping, and licked at
The greasy crumbs, before you could get in
And complain about all that you found wanting.