Permission Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I am not asking you
For permission,
To make love to you with
My own hand,
Alone in this bed:
I do it quite often,
But I can still see....
That my mother knows.
Just as, I am not asking you
For permission to write this poem,
The little flecked note
Tossed out of the nest,
Yet having learned to fly:
It is too early for it to become
Anything but the crocodile’s
Feathered attribute,
The sad proverb which
Keeps it from drowning,
Only to snuff it out before
The fuse contacts gunpowder;
I am not asking you
For permission
To end it before the curtain rises,
And the false applause;
I am not asking you
For permission,
For I never intended
To reach the sea.