I should be writing novels about you: <br />You, you who never read, who's done nothing to <br />Help me stop doing this. <br />All you’ve kissed is my neck, and by doing so <br />Made it the most cherished portion of my body, <br />Do it so again and it will spontaneously become a goblet for <br />Spilling cheap fortified wines <br />For the hobos in my castanet way up in Michigan; <br />Catch me with your feral dew filled eyes, <br />Collect me and make my body a corrugated runway <br />For the arguments of your evolved necessities- <br />How in bodies by and by we look the same as our <br />Contingent of species, but how sometimes I might suppose for <br />Your soul to flutter vibrantly a long ways down different <br />Multidisciplinary pathways- all the way back to the hidden <br />Greenness’s of my forests- where you might settle down <br />Anywhere, but be assured of your protection- Oh, there, <br />I would misspell my love for you in so many different ways; <br />And you would pretend not to care, but you would listen, <br />Restive to my rhymes ringing pedantic but not truly instructional; <br />And we could go back further to where our mothers bathed <br />The very waters of the mountains’ tears, <br />Or I could drive straight for you void of introspection through <br />The vast monotone of our continent, catch you unawares <br />And let myself become a vase for your nebulous politeness, <br />Let you serve me and tip you well, and then disappear into <br />The educated night, pissing like a dog in that Florida University, <br />Dreaming of you despotic but wisely, never seeing you again <br />Except maybe at the very end of my dog’s life, <br />A wayward latchkey to the masters I no longer believe in, <br />The gravestones then very ready and presumptive.<br /><br />Robert Rorabeck<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/at-the-very-end-of-my-dog-s-life/
