What have I done, <br />But haven’t looked her in the eye; <br />If she is a beautiful woman, she doesn’t <br />Care, <br />But makes love to others of her kind in <br />The gibbous pool; <br />And they are under the cloth of deciduous <br />Coitus- <br />If I have good friends anymore, <br />I don’t know- There are still girls in <br />High school, skipping- skipping, <br />Crossing chalk with flesh, <br />A sorority of lippy ankle bracelets- where they go <br />I am asleep under indigo blocks, <br />The unused motors of adulterous housewives- <br />In the green space, we all have our own gods <br />And patron saints- <br />Maybe she is in Oregon (or Washington) , homeopathic in time; <br />What fruit is she plucking, <br />What ghosts I don’t know, but dogs and budded gardens <br />Lips of obese flowers jeweled with bumble bees; <br />She’s lost a lover like a good leg, <br />But she is still exploring. What does she do, <br />But dress this pretty thought in the pathos of army jackets, <br />Somehow underdone in the crenulations of old <br />Photographs; and I would like to shake her hand just <br />To get up close for awhile to deny what coffins I haven’t <br />Seen by her famous senses, <br />But if I confided this to her I would be afraid it <br />Would just be another thing she wouldn’t understand.<br /><br />Robert Rorabeck<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/our-own-gods-and-patron-saints/
