The First And Last of Its Kind

Burning in your Coital furnace,
Narcoleptic but with gasoline:
I want to drive at you like many directions,
Like phalanxes of hegemonic spears
Doing their duty toward the Hessian’s
Bosom,
But Heraclitus’s river flows with fresh water
Every morning,
And you sip from the water fountain and pirouette
Like a hummingbird,
And your fingers touch new clay;
And they don’t even think to look off to the
Other direction where my model rockets
Are exploding,
Sending entire civilizations of pretty young ants
Cart wheeling through the clouds-
So I don’t know any other great philosophy,
So I bow and suck tit to my muses,
Wherever they are: I jest and give tinseling fanfare,
And I make a fool of myself to no one
In the middle of a hibernating Disney World;
And it is so much fun
To prance like an awkward penumbra for the blind,
A three legged dog swearing that
He will live forever,
And this is my poem:
The first and last of its kind.

Robert Rorabeck