Still Waiting For Something That Never Does Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Charging out once more into the superfluous
Garden of thorns and sun birds, with my childhood
Knocked out beside the carport,
Where it is useless to use anymore lances,
And perhaps my cousins are sun bathing nudely pressed
Against the slanted shadows of the very cab we came
Down from Michigan in;
And all the familiar tricks are doing it in the sandy
Sunshine; and the road is made of seashells
From creatures tossed off her gown which is so
Richly overabundant that she doesn’t mind if half of
It is lost- While those who have retired drink any kind of
Domestic beer, and the neighborhood has all gone quiet
Expecting fireworks that very evening,
And all the husbands of married couples have done fixing
The washing machines down the street,
And are back at home sleeping with their wives, so close
But never touching;
And I have stolen so many things from kindergarten not for
Other kids with their good behaviors, but for me- kept atop
The refrigerator;
And my jaw was broken but wired shut and gathered up off
The interstate making me think that is why I write some many
Things twenty five or six years later waiting for the pornographies
In the woods, waiting for the literary agency to give a signal
To land, waiting for her to call or kiss like a butterfly,
Still waiting for something that never does.