The Girl Who Isn'T Real, Who Isn'T You Poem by Robert Rorabeck

You give me numbers until I’m read in the face,
But I am still an old opponent-
Look at the scars of my failed suicide,
The places they’ve surprised me from the cake.
The puppies whose noses are like svelte tumble near
The drainage where the conquistadors sleep.
Grandfather keeps his poems underneath his armpits,
Like housewives keep there pies on the windows to kill
Lesser housewives with the smell of their baked fruits-
There was this girl too who wanted a ride home-
She lived on another planet, I know it was her tomb,
But I told her I had to encore my empty stage,
Sweep up the forensic evidence of cheap confetti.
I almost got to see her through the veneer of her brazier,
But I wasn’t ready,
And now I’ll have nothing to do, but sob in my room
Until she comes out of the sea of evil flowers,
Awakening senses who cannot feel. She is done servicing
The garroted pirates on her pinwheel,
And now she’ll pluck her kisses on limbs loving the
Changing of my scars, and hiss and feel-up
The girl who isn’t real, who isn’t you.