The Liver Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Mostly it’s the liver involved.
He takes one for the Gipper.
He boos the pretty boys wooing from
Their stalls,
He comes home late for supper-
I let him ride the bankrupt amusements,
And pet the one-trick pony-
He fills my heart with grain-
He goes on distended fieldtrips clopping
Through the intoxicating rain;
I suppose he’s made some fine deliveries
Though they’ve been mostly fumbles,
A bachelor of my home spun ilk carving
Trees as they burn, noting paper while it crumbles;
And I’ve sent him out again,
Or he’s run off to join the carnival,
Lilting as he goes, tossing back and mumbles,
Swearing he’s still in high school,
Nodding off under the palmettos: Awakening to
The silken calve, he follows like a bloodhound
In a rumble:
And when he’s finished and as hard and cold,
As smooth as a skipping stone, I take her reluctant
Hand and drag her to the memorial,
Because he was a fine a soldier as I could ever wished.
And he’ll be rewarded a purple heart posthumous, because
I drank like a fish.