The Most Viscious Women In The World Never Knocked On My Door Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I seem to smell like cigarettes,
Gasoline, but we’ve just been burning
Pine trees- Without any Mexicans,
It is a sad thing;
Without any unicorns, who’s to say we’re
Even real;
And I’ve been pulling it out so long,
Running away from haunted houses along
The train tracks,
Imperfect, clutching the warm bodies of
Rattlesnakes, and now she says she’s
Married: and I don’t feel it anymore,
The way you must feel it coming down from
A long flight in an airplane, escaping your
Bedroom for the acceptance of France:
And I thought I was invincible, that I couldn’t
Shrink anymore, and we could go out
To dinner at high elevations, and you could
Strip dance for me in the careless movie
With our flask of firewater, firewater; but this
Echo isn’t true- it is the reflex of a dying man:
It even isn’t a dog barking,
Scared of the night, because nothing in it is real.