Unsettled Sea Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The line is drawn
cross it if you want to
leave my head before the
Mexican General comes with
his shining men; the
sharp sticks curious little
boys use to blind
dead dogs-

Can't you see there is
no hope for victory
inside,
we will all die,
when she walks away,
far far away across
her white washed hills,

To let those other men
in- her porcelain wash basins
drip the blood of the innocent.
There are too many on her,
so they will trample our
walls down
as they inebriate and
queue against her
bed,
A filling station on her fumes,
and men pay to watch the
intoxicating
shape her flesh
breathes and moves in-
She is always open
for them,
hanging their guns on
her brass bed knobbs,

And now the time is
come
The line is drawn,
this highway
men still living driving
down upon

and the storm casting
out the unweighted
clouds that gather with
sickness of thoughtlessness
drives us from her
far away to some place
unseen upon the
unsettled sea.