Falling Into My Arms Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The forest is waltzing right underneath
A pickled moon,
And the dungeons are all emptied, and the housewives
Are sweeping:
And I don’t even live here, but I keep coming up to
The surface and breathing,
Sticking my head through Alma’s window and kissing
Her three times,
Like the structure of childhood folklore before she could
Drive away,
Promising to see me in the morning and come to
My house to do the laundry:
So now I feel like a hero, and all of the monsters are
Hibernating:
There is time on my hands, and the world is at large,
But it is just an overgrown living room
With healthy lamps speaking over the propitious
Dinners:
And the trees are smoking while the hearty gods smoke
Their pipes:
And I pick green things for Alma, but I don’t even have
To before she is falling into my arms.