Forever Hers Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The television started with the scars of life;
They are always echoing, and my bed is full of
Dirt, this one and that one two.
From the slopes of the mountain’s angelic
Neckline, she makes fun of my songs, because
They were before her age; but how else
Am I supposed to sing to her; and when the
Roads are closed when the snow comes,
How will she ever get my fresh fruit and bouquets-
But the tourists will come out of their woodwork
Traveling in their caravans, their families fully
Formed. Will she sing to them of me- How I
Used to chase some Rimbaudian god up her
Skirts- How I didn’t mind which end I started or
Finished up at, but would jog her neighborhood my
Knees keeping time on the black pitch, she guiding
Me nonsensically many houses over,
Past the lions and the coral snakes, probably off
Drooling on her vanished bed, dreaming of less
Esoteric boys- Until I fell down in
The dunes and clasped them in a bosom which spilled
The ant lions from their dens, unearthed the grinning
Cenotaphs of conquistadors; but what she will do,
Is turn her doors open and let them in, trying to survive
Another winter where the beauty is just as harsh as
Her own, unapologetic, almost whimsical in its fury-
She will never think of me more than a needless
Curiosity she couldn’t bet her livelihood on-
Swirling her finger in a glass, she will upset its bouquet
Like starting evil flowers to burn- she will make
Everything she owns sing for her, until the storm is
Over. Closing her eyes, she will rest with the one remaining;
He has won, and now is hers forever.