The Fiery Angels Of Your Best Friend's Older Sister Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Low altitude rum puts still living escargot in
My ears,
Twirling, twirling, the beautiful little things
With a few cells on the brink,
The new eternity of little girls skipping chalk;
And I can’t believe I am doing it again,
Usually with the same old conjunctions and semicolons
In my swarthy hand,
Tossing the grapes- When I want to be a better man
With a fine young mustache,
Want to spread her legs and plant her there
Atop the faithful alligator, and gross the man-dug
Rivers across the zoo to see the cages where they
Keep the age-old vampire, my alcoholic uncle,
And feed him peanuts, and show him slides of the elephant,
His girlfriend,
To live again in the 80s from a time warp discovered under
The ice of New Swabia, ands the skating rink,
And to make friends again with short haired and well-trimmed
Blondes, to ask them unabashed how is their sex-life,
To read fairy-tales to her four children, to get an erection
Doing it- To feel good in the surf of her loins, all wet and
Hungry, like being in fifth grade again, a patrol on his
Way to Washington DC, believing in the altruisms of professional
Wrestling, and that tomorrow I will be a sommelier and have
Written something passionate in the ancient grottos of
Colorado, while doing this, holding you in bed,
Having faith in the resurrections and apocryphal worm holes,
And going down smiling even as the sunsets on the last day
Of high school knowing that I should never have a chance
To believe in again the fiery angels of your best friend’s
Older sister laid out and barely altruistic beside the upper-
Middle class pools.