Softly Beaten Hero Poem by Robert Rorabeck

They are giving their busy colors anyway: down to sleep,
While the wolf is moaning to the sheep of his
Tooth ache, and the long traveled tourists finally tuck in
In a hotel down the hill from
Jack and Jill, broken crowned from sex atop all of the musty
Wildflowers:
And the sky lights up with the truancy of fireworks,
And the homosexual dragons curl atop of themselves and seem to
Want to worship the sun who has gone on his chariot to do far
Better women wrong:
And then I sit alone in the affluences of another carport, sipping my
Own, likening myself to women who lie wounded on the high backed
Slopes of a precarious mountain, their skirts so high up,
They will reveal themselves absolutely if they fall- but then I am
Not there: I am nothing- I am the truancies of high school
In the echoless hallway, like a beauty emptied of curiosity, a drinking
Fountain abandoned by lips: enjoyed by nothing until the next
Softy beaten hero comes.