To Be Real Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Heart implanted in a rock garden of
Words that happen out of time:
The sky looks like lucky rabbits feet without
Any airplanes:
The sky looks almost real, with the cats on my flesh,
So cautiously strung like harps.
Golden is the color of the sea, but it cannot be observed
From this ancient abode;
And some girls I love are just stoned.
They wait suppliantly like coyotes underneath their
Mobile homes,
Kissed by rattlesnakes milking their bones.
The sky in the color of unfortunate salmon. The sky
A salon;
And then, with the curtain closing, the girls I loved
Are finally moving on-
And the garden is chirping with lightning.
The storm is coming that will carry on the gossip that used
To be real.