Don'T Tell Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I am thoroughly shot through with windmills,
Alma,
And I plant the glass bottle on the glass table next to the wooden
Picks of the bird house;
And it sounds as if there is someone outside my door:
The airplanes leap just like your new family of rabbits,
And the cars will drive through the rain tomorrow:
I drove by your house tonight,
As I remembered and worshiped you,
And I slept on top of a roof near your house almost a week ago,
While the other homeless specters fell down drunkenly in the aloe
And tried to kiss your doorknobs from where they fell,
But they didn’t get so far:
Oh, Alma, Alma- if you can remember please, please,
Alma- don’t tell.