The night is so sad and unmysterious: <br />Mother does the wash, of course, <br />And the old folks sit out in front of their porch, <br />Dreaming and sweating that they <br />Still had the capacity <br />Or the balls for suicide: <br />And I want to get to the gun just any way I can- <br />Then when I am dead, <br />Or at the exact frantic millennium when the <br />Hereditary bullet is ruining my already hereditary <br />Ruined skull and its <br />Really messed up amusements, <br />I can dream, oh yes I can that she must have loved me, <br />At least a pinprick full of unwholesome love, <br />And that after I was gone they could play rusting <br />Trumpets for me <br />While one or two homeless men let off oral sex with <br />Alligators long enough to read something I <br />Had written and to declare that I had beaten the <br />Ever loving sh%t out of Shakespeare, <br />To become occult in my death, <br />Esoteric in the sky, while the swing still sweated out <br />For me, creaking its kind of howl <br />Like a dog, like a woman, <br />Still waiting for me to come home.<br /><br />Robert Rorabeck<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/still-waiting-for-me/
