In Her Sleep Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Laughing beside their plots,
Relatives and forget-me-nots, do not decide
Upon a thing:
They lay right there through the oratories
And gypsum confessions,
While young girls go to school, flowing their hairs,
And dragging their trains:
Even the angels seem to drink from them; words
With flowers in a vase,
The smell of her two month old perfume still in
My bed.
An iguana climbs my lime green wall. Outside there
Is gas in the tank of my car,
And Mexicans across the street, moving in their
Brown shadows- while the mausoleums rise like
Orchards of Christmas trees, kissing their
Last hurrahs- sending them off to make-believe;
And all of it in a lottery of hearts,
Creating the tide of our Siamese bodies, listening
As we fall down beside her,
As she rolls over and forgets us in her sleep.