Why We Have Yet To Even Get Started Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Life may be as hungry as death, but I am certain
It is never as fulfilled:
As I set out, my body throbs like a coward:
I get my haircut with politicians while the other tourists
Jog around the lake
While the snowflakes are falling and the electricity
Is leaping from stake to stake;
And the moon seems polarized: It seems as if it’s making
The feathers return to love birds,
And for awhile everything is turned back like curtains;
And I look up for a second,
And maybe I am beautiful, and maybe I am thinking that this
Doesn’t even have to start;
And she is getting back out of her car or by whatever means
She chooses to travel away,
And maybe she is kissing me: maybe her eyes
For a second have reached their high water mark, and they
Seem to be leaving an impression on me:
Why, aren’t we back into the middle of school: We’re both
Virgins:
The apples are yet unknown to her fingers, laying like unknown
Vocabularies in their tree;
And then for a second she floats up again and is bended like a
Rib under my wing:
Put back into place I linger: I am a truant who so immaturely
Wonders why we have to even get started.