Maybe She Is Blond Poem by Robert Rorabeck

She’s got blond hair,
Mother; and I want to bury my lips alone with
Her in the crepuscule beside the canal,
Hidden by the overgrowth where the traffic is flowing,
While the mailboxes have turned their backs,
But she is always falling into the flames of another fire;
And my truths are just the truths of a liar,
But I still come to her with enough alcohol; and I have
No friends,
And I don’t know how to play pool: Her children weep and
Drool and the pretty nightmares and alligators crawl and
Curl in the saunas underneath her house:
She is entirely naked: She is a church stripped bare of
Stained glass, and maybe the legionnaires are returning home,
Maybe the pilots are touching down;
And maybe my parents will bring me dinner, but for right now
I am thinking about her- Kind of how I always thought of
Her while better men slew her dragons and cut her hair;
And maybe she is blond,
And turning towards him in the epiphany of her blue night:
Maybe she is blond-
Maybe tomorrow I will be alright.