In The Sweet Sweet Bossoms Of Alma's Laughing And Pollinated Cenotaph Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The midgets have my new heads in their cradles,
And my mother enjoyed her flowers on her day,
But I am greedy and the rest of my flowers have been for
Alma,
And I took her to eat pancakes,
But we haven’t yet laid on our backs and consorted with the sky:
I have so little time with her:
There are always customers and coworkers and greedy,
Greedy uncles
With high and popping knuckles,
But I look at her all day juxtaposed with the water coolers:
Actually, the water cooler- it is just one- it is in the foreground
Like a Christmas tree,
And when my uncle gets back from West Virginia he will probably
Fire me,
Because these are the times of our lean mountains,
And my parents are gone,
But visions of Alma happen repeatedly to me every day,
And so I or my ghost lives on,
As I press her kisses to me, as if my body was a book collecting her
Pollens,
As if I had some vested interest in the sweet, sweet bosoms
Of Alma’s laughing and pollinated cenotaph.