Robert Rorabeck - The Right Key To Sing

Tonight is meaningless without
Red wheelbarrows or empty rooms where
The pines are sleeping awaiting the borrowed
Day,
For the gods to come awake, long legged,
Shaved, to begin their routines at the gym-
As I begin mine here, sweet demiurge,
Prometheus discontinued,
Robbing armored trucks,
the last of his kind who can barely
Even spell, searching for the next to last line
To nail his prom date to the wall-
Ironically, not a pugilist but with a swollen jaw
Muscle twisted with a bit of wire, a cyst,
Political cartoons to draw- Everyday waking up
In the maze in the sky, overweight but wanting to fly,
Idolizing King Kong, wanting to pluck the stewardess’
Bra, like a flower,
Discovering who she loves but not knowing her,
And then to discard the rest of the crew into the burnished
Caesuras so far away from anyone you ever knew,
To let her bathe by squeezing nimbus,
Waiting for another chance to shrink into her room,
Wary of the freshman class of knights who’ve
Read the wanted ads and are perpetually climbing the
Beanstalk way up to your fiberglass preserve devoid
Of herons or song birds- just her weeping kind
Of romance, or getting her drunk until she realizes she
Loves you and she’s lost her underpants:
Wayward ideas which want to swing perpetually,
Living forever but going nowhere,
Forgetting the way home,
Never learning the right key to sing.

Robert Rorabeck

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