Their Cadaverous Buffet Of Sweeter Than Sweet Meats Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The night pulls me back towards the doors of
Prostitution:
In the pit of some fair damsels body, a tiny spit of fire burns,
And they keep saying I am so cute, so cute:
And it cost me so much less than a housewife’s spindled
Shopping list written on Eucalyptus in
The boxing theatres of Telluride:
Those boys she enjoys with soft green eyes lapping all the way
Through Christmas and Easter,
Until the house is empty save for the paper airplanes who
Are softly gossiping;
And then I know that I will never make love to a stewardess,
At least not in this time that is my time:
And I don’t want to make love to Erin anymore: don’t want
To send the despondent barmaid anymore bouquets,
Simply because she knows who she is and her pleasures;
And she simply isn’t enough for me,
Because she is beautiful in a semiprecious sort of weird:
And her nerves are pierced,
But all she is allowed to sell the sweet little girls who come shopping
Inside her doorway are the spirits of tiny little dears:
And red riding hood comes knocking under the jubilance of a really
Thrilling castle, and they lock horns and make pillow fights
And love with moths on their flesh
And in their early morning years they have loved better sorts of
Boys than me:
And they have had to send me away shoplifting across the graveyards
Of the days,
But I loved them still and whistled to them while I was on my feet,
But found out that there were better sorts of girls dripping like bones
Sweating their cadaverous buffets of sweeter than sweet meats.