Even Through Those Hours When You Are Far From Home Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Like a sickly grove of trees worships their
Lady in the sky,
I reach up from my weedy encroachments
Wishing for you,
Seeing each frame of your shadow through
The monsoons streaking your glass windows-
You are inside, baking and warm,
Your apron tied around your hourglass waist,
Doing your thing, dancing for your children;
Jewel of domestications,
And I am immature, and out of a job-
Quite suited for this economy, I tramp and
Slip through the hours of this industrialized swamp,
The tourists making a busy cream in my mind
And the pistils of air plants bloom like tongues
Enjoying their perches in the yards, and in each
Womb a beautiful car, restive and showy;
And when you wake up you drive all day, or you
Bake, and I sneak into your house and smell the hours
You have spent, and, trespassing, against the
Crenulations of your engorged pool- pretending to
Love, or know who you are, even through those
Hours when you are far from home.