The End Of The Road Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Scarred in a night of dime-store forget-me-nots:
But they forget me,
The beautiful ghosts in their oh so beautiful haunts:
And there are olive trees all over the crests
Of hills of Spain,
And old gods who are now all very well taken care of;
And bartenders serving their insouciant drink,
I continue to croon for though now coughing like
A song bird in its infected mine:
And they carousel with their strong men who are
Pumping the horses up and down,
And S- is in Colorado with dark eyes and
Storm clouds:
What is she doing there,
A young female child at her hip like a thirsty gun:
I want to run to her with four legs to run,
And leap the fences, the briary Appalachian fences
Fabled with fat scuppernongs while my
Great uncle is still water-skiing on a great lake,
And I am trying to save face with my muses,
With the girls I love,
But I am too drunk,
And my liver is a football that has never won,
Never touched down,
And I am obese and lonely hanging in the shadows of
The singular graveyard that always keeps its hopes
Down near the lake,
At the bottom of the hill,
At the end of the road.