For All The Times Singing You Home Poem by Robert Rorabeck

So my face has its own zeniths that the puppet strings
Of gravity keeps pulling down:
I look sadder and sadder, and I am the jubilant paradox
Waiting outside of college classrooms
As chubby as cauliflower who wants to get with his
Cantaloupe:
Of course the moon is pregnant: of course it is, but buy its
Stolen religiosity, I can see you swimming all of the way
Down the highway,
And soon I know you will be getting off into the steep
Jungles of another Catholic topiary: You will comb your
Hair at each traffic light,
And then you will come back on for me: because you only
Have on destination, and that is to make it all the way toward
This mouth who is for all times singing you home.