I want to flatter myself until I’m dead, <br />And raise up gray-haired Lazarus <br />And thank the Lord, <br />And scratch my pen: <br />Realize now what the dawn really is, <br />A commercial for a tipping glass, <br />Her eyes are lazy and casting shadows <br />Quietly dancing above the grass: <br />And I can’t really say why I do this, <br />Why I down another one, <br />Why I haven’t been in bed with a woman <br />Since the distant past: <br />Its not scholarly, its not even healthy; <br />And its no use: <br />I’ll move away. I’ll flip burgers, I’ll mow <br />The yard and then bow to my insouciant audience <br />Keeping all the words I know scribbled on a <br />Napkin and I’ll use it to wipe off the humid <br />Glances the housewives give slanting halfway down <br />Their porcelain abutments: <br />I don’t know why I do this; its not even a choice, <br />And I’ll admit this while staring straight at you, <br />Because I figure its you who really knows why <br />And then the sun lights up and f$cks the clear <br />Blue sky.<br /><br />Robert Rorabeck<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-clear-blue-sky/
