Sharon Poem by Robert Rorabeck

You’ll make love in Colorado and open
Presents while I sell
Christmas trees in South Florida, exhumed in
A sweat of plunder I can’t even spell:
Maybe I’ll get paid,
But what’s important is I’ll write more poetry,
And I’ll think about you,
If only to prove my heterosexuality;
But with your eyes, like tennis courts, like
Teal fjords, the graveyard of every forest spirit,
How could everything I am not be proven true
By you;
Even when you no longer haunt where I make tips,
And try to keep up with the quiet paganisms,
While the traffic streams and sometimes accidents,
Where things are bought and sold-
If the butterflies of chaos are really true,
Maybe you will sneeze; but I am too drunk to continue
Humoring my serious pantheisms of your
Vanished empiricisms- This is a sport better left
To the Aristotelian logic of the caracoled highways:
Now I am almost done, because the room is echoing
With my ambiguous foreplays: If I get too drunk,
I will masturbate into the high grass-
Dishonoring you, but you’ve already had your
Space pirates, your better luck-
The knowledgeable hands upon you which are subtlety
Discernible from the female;
And now I am even thinking of calling you by the
Old telegraph lines of the pony express and their’
Young forgotten souls,
But luckily I don’t have a dime, and my other date is
Still roller-skating around the rocky areolas of your birthstone’s
Mine.