The Feeling Of My Sound Poem by Robert Rorabeck

You almost positively sleep in the carpools of our
Cenotaphs:
You waver over to me as if we’d both just dried off from
The pool,
And you put your mouth to my greasy fingers and I
Feed you french-fries:
Hot potatoes still steaming from their gunfights:
And guns and model tanks and airplanes and the Hitler Youth:
I want to take you in some abandoned avenue in
Lake Worth where no one can promenade,
Where the calico cats serenade, and you’d never thought to
Think of me in the loci of rest and transitory amusements,
Like funnel cakes at the fair,
I’d pull your hair and make you pant while sliding to the side
Your underwear;
But for now the good boys love you and the bad,
But I have to ask of your wonder, if you yet wonder if you’ve
Yet to have the best you’ve ever had.
And the city pouts because it has no fingers to find out
The centers of pomegranates or geodes;
The thick and middle pages of story books, the creamy center of
Your soul which would make me fat and happy
And peel out like pop rockets over the overgrown hibiscus of
Indian burial grounds;
And I’d make you pop and gun your body until your lips
Moaned for the feeling of my sound.