For Their Makings Of Love Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Piling up all of my desires before the threats
Of loneliness,
As pale as the happenstance of a song bird taken
Under the river who cherished its bright energy,
So now the beds are long and accumulative
And they never stop until they get to the deltas of the sea
Where airplanes are leaping like stones
Too high up to see what they are wishing for:
I don’t think that they will ever come down, carrying
The girls away from the green arcs I made for them
While I pissed my pants in preschool;
And they developed so beautifully baking like pies in
Their grottos,
Their female hands as right as instruments that fix around
The hampers of laundry, doing the wishes for the men they
Love,
While I sing with the other frog princes in their driveway,
And we make all the music we can before all of her fulfilled
Wishes travel home,
And gather her in special soft quadrants of the house especially
Built for their makings of love.