Two Dollar Bed Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I write good sh@t for good honest people;
The oranges from my grove are safe to eat,
But sometimes bitter:
I plug into the electricity of locked houses and
Ejaculate
While the boomslangs weep down to kiss
Me,
And at night in my roofless boudoir, arousal
Unfulfilled without the conduit of your tight
Mollusk,
Necrotic ambulances swing around like stiff
Gleeful horses,
Decrying my embittered virginity;
They sing with a chorus of bloated mermaids
That this won’t last:
This talent, and this beauty blooming like
A magical bouquet by my lucky palm-
That I should grow even more grotesquely mundane,
While the crickets lay off the job of tweaking legs,
And campus security won’t let me into the head-
So I have nothing to do but jog and swig
Two dollar beer:
And raise the skull and cross bones over my briny
Two dollar bed.