How The Poem Must Go Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The best way to do this poem,
Is to ask which exit I must take to go
To where she is,
For the highway is like a flooded river,
And might deposit me into
An undiscovered shady grove full
Of anonymous lives, an enclave where
No one goes to work anymore,
But plays baseball on the dusty red diamond
Out back of their mobile homes,
And drink domestic beers in lawn chairs
While asking each other what things they
See in the clouds,
And listens to what the sea might tell them
From far away, though they never venture
To find her, because gas is so expensive,
And they might be disappointed by her shore,
And they let their hair grow long,
And the women don’t wear bras,
And the children don’t wear shoes but
Read the bible straight like whiskey,
And let their homes be camouflaged by the
Brown tears of the eager to strip pines
And oaks;
But to conclude the poem how it must end,
I would rather know the mathematics to her
Driveway,
The number to her soul, and the keys to every
Lock of every hinge,
For the highway is a big mother, and the
Sun is blinding, and the roads are lonely and
Not fond of findings, but if I could know where
To love her, and if I were allowed,
I would go to her and carry her out behind her
Little house to the winded river she has never
Seen and baptize in one part river
And one part lips,
And say her name consecutively for every day
Onwards, and bare children and watch them
Grow until they took off down the highway
In brand new cars of their own,
Looking for their own exit ramps, and new
Lips of their own,
And that is how the poem must go.