As She Comes To Me Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I read my novel when no on writes to me,
And I go to sleep when there is nothing left to complain
About. I dream that my father doesn’t sell fireworks;
I dream that he is an ornithologist in an irrigated desert,
With marble benches and low gravity to increase
The longevity of hummingbirds- What lies!
What lies I tell my uncle as he ploughs beneath the
Corn silo, while little nieces laugh between the rows
Of raspberries, which, like costume jewelry will be
Their heirlooms: I think if I saw Rimbaud reincarnated
In college, I would not hesitate to turn his chin up beneath
The ceiling fan, and kiss him reverently, the breathing gold
Cups beneath both of his eyes filling up with clever tears:
Oh, what are the sad things the knitting circle brings to
Gossip on: The manifestos of alluvial plains in the
Salinas Valley: Steinbeck as a boy on a red pony,
And the tender please of innocuous driveways curling up
Through the rich insouciance to the gentle knuckles of an
Older lover. What lies! Now in a week, beautiful women
Will be dressing up for Halloween, and after midnight test in
The tight grips of a lover, and there should be rain,
But she has nothing else to say to me, and so very few
Costumes to choose from, that when I go to sleep it will
Be very easy for me to recognize her as she comes to me.