Peter Redgrove Poem by Robert Rorabeck

While I am here another poem,
A crapshoot at eternity, a roll of dice,
I carve my name into the auburn sky:
This is my tourism, my saccharine hobby,
Like an infant masturbating, the pseudepigripha
In full bloom, she wished to take me by
The hand to the football game where the
Fantasy of her lovers waited toothily,
But I hid away in the rain and recorded the sounds
Of under aged ghosts pattering on the infinite
Linoleums of suburbia. Should I go back to
School to stem the tide of fading away?
Or should I just walk to the east until I
Begin swimming, this is the dilemma, and the reason why
I cannot meet her gaze. I remember the first
Time she showed me her c&nt unshaven in the
High school of her incensed bedroom, and the
Waves of another feeling, the fieldtrips of
Presupposed sex: we share the same birthday,
But now she is married to the tribe of her own flesh,
Insularly, hymned- On weekends they shoot off
To Disney World, admire the lavender alligators
And watch how Cinderella is kidnapped, abused,
Their farts a curtain cadence: he stops to buy
Roadside fireworks, she thinks of me, she guesses,
But I am not even good enough for this,
I can’t even recall what it was, little more than an
Easy trick so early in the morning I was
The only one that was up.