Mistakes Poem by Robert Rorabeck

In the morning I make mistakes,
As the liquor rums off, forget to deliver for her,
Whoever she is: Safa tells me his dreams,
And I start fantasizing about tomboy scientists.
I pay Nancy and drink her coffee,
And the light, as it always does, is in a mote pooling
On Pedro. He’s sleeping in later, afraid to speak the
Tongue of the country which employs him, his little
Macho hands, the beating heart which has traveled so
Far it seems to have gone into another world entirely:
His mother cancerous and distant, his father scarred
On cheek and chin, like my own father, can no longer
Speak to, like his own father, but love indefinitely,
As I wait, asking for forgiveness, and the ululations
Of a sycophantic phone call, which must tell me what
To do.