Far Too Late For Me Poem by Robert Rorabeck

You have no idea how cold it gets
Alone in the car
With the dogs lost up on the mountain,
And you are still doing this
And no one else- The moon would seem to be
Looking curious over the lip on the
Other side of the road where the coyotes’
Silhouettes lope; but you are no longer
Sure- it may just be her nature to seem that
Way- what glows heavenly obtuse from the
Other end of the marionette,
The little boy’s dream who escaped from his
Father,
Stealing whatever automobile there was,
And driving down the road to do everything badly:
Now I’ve buried my fool’s gold in
The hills which seemed to be at the same time her
Bosom, and am waiting for them to bud;
But the seasons have come earlier this year,
And soon it will be her birthday, and she will forget
The stunts I’ve pulled: Maybe it is her nature,
To be the beautifully polished stone the tourist’s
Bribe- Changing as the colors of the wine she sells
Swirls, hypnotizing, somnolent:
But I don’t know: Everything with half a brain has
Already flown south for the winter, to get there in
Time for the matinee; but I don’t know- I haven’t
Bought a new pare of jeans in over a decade,
And my wrist is naked of any sort of time piece,
But I don’t need to know the hour to know that it is
Already far too late for me.