If You Will Be Pleased Poem by Robert Rorabeck

You don’t seem to see my scars, even while we sit
In the wavering penumbras of your stationary cars; and the bulls
Have gone to the quick markets,
And the sun is as red and as wide and as hungry as an offering
Bowl:
And I do all of this in the quietest howls of the hungriest night:
I say your name like an apocryphal prayer:
Your eyes are serpentine timber, Alma- and your body is a smooth
Bicycle filled now with the familiar tricks of
Our delusional marriages: and you are my friend, and we shared
A breakfast together this morning. You fed me pancakes with
Strawberry syrup: and your legs were shaved
And they went so far up your little body, like brown ladders into
An arboreal heaven I delighted in plucking before
Noon:
And now I pray for you, while your eyes turn in the strange lights
Of your home that seems so far away, Alma;
As I wonder how much time it will take you to get around to
Reading this,
And if you will even know me then, and if you will be pleased.