By My Early Forties

In the land of the green rolling hills
The green dragons live,
Smoking in renaissance, snouts curling:
As their steaming caracoles rise to the armpits
Of airplanes:
And my wife cleans the pimpled floor-

Forget-me-nots have, perhaps, forgotten about her-
A Chinese girl lost to the malaise beneath the clouds,
Wimpled by the diamonds of social espionage,
The games playing in recoil perpetuated between the socialized slaves:

But she saved me,
A mermaid for a werewolf, in a space where there
Was no one else to believe:
A ghost-town-drive-in-movie-theatre,
An abandoned lot with a naked stem of a rose,
And an arcade in its electronic grave:

she saved me after all of the false chances had relocated
Themselves into the walls of the childrened cul-de-sacs of
Their married unwater caves:
All of the beautified damsels already distressed and
Trapped within the surfs of their inescapable,
Beatific waves:

Perhaps once beautiful women demystified,
Revealed green snouts unfurled, trapping for diamonds,
Wounded by quotes of insincere boys,
But no words of their own from the forked tongues
That serve them well at dinner parties,
Pretending that they can escape from death's parties:

There she is, sincere, floating as a billboard, angelically
Advertising, a bodisvatta
For the blindness of men she never has to save:
In life, a promise for a wounded thief-
A promotion for baseball after the end of an abandoned
game:

Upon her bosom rests a cornucopia of mandarin apples:
My one year old drinks and tugs:
Her poets drinking too much wine, dying before
Their teenage years:
Virginal and sincere:
Their mythological bridges noted in their epitaphs of
Literature:
We have crossed them holding hands,
The sun in a mote of its dallying séances:

And now our children play half-hazzardly, interupting
The soldiers of another drunken poem,
Proving that a loneliness is broken forever,
And political movements, wherever, have no grasp upon
The ethereal heavens.

The cadaver is retrieved from its high school that
The gullibility of her boys will win forever.

PS

I will be a millionaire by my early forties.

by Robert Rorabeck

Comments (2)

Awesome....White blossoms of the pear and a woman in moonlight reading a letter.
al chiaro di luna una donna e i fiori bianchi del pero.. immagine molto suggestiva.. beautiful image..