Settling Down To Sleep Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Tomorrow I will have to buy more cheap rum:
That is all there is too it, because I cannot drive,
And the mountains are too high to see over:
She doesn’t read me anymore- She lives in North-Central
Florida, in a student ghetto still,
I used to slip around her in a decade ago-
I really did; it was a sin:
She doesn’t read me anymore. She thinks I’ve said
Everything there is to say to her,
But she doesn’t know how infinite the lubrications are
Concerning her- Vast Caribbean rum attributes her,
Diadems her auburn séances- She doesn’t care,
She loves cartoons of straight young men crossing their
Big across their bulbous chests. I have written that they have
Blue anchor tattoos, admitting it was cliché,
And that their biceps are as neat as swans curling over their
Twins to sleep: If I really ever do visit her again,
I’d bring her more of the metamorphosis of aspen boughs,
The higher altitude gold she never looks to sea,
The spent rhymes like pin balls ricochets off the bellies of
Comely airplanes; and I’d sucker punch her handsome
Bouncers and retreat, and that is a sweet enough thought to be
My last one as I settle down to sleep.