Mountains Of My Adolescent Playgrounds Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I cannot believe that you are here—but my
Arms and my legs are here,
And my wife is sleeping beside me—
And all of this must have been something of
Your ethereal amusement,
Or other words I cannot describe—
While my parents are guests sleeping in
My house,
And I have been chosen to be haunted once
Again by these liquors
Just so I could write to you tonight and
Go to school tomorrow cheerfully—Not a thing
In this—not poetry-
Only a fieldtrip of the soul—and not to a beautiful
Place—just some halfhearted amusement so
Clumsily put together so to be somewhat
Dangerous—but enough of this vainglorious
Business—my one good grandmother is dead,
But you already know that—
As the fire burned down our mountain some years
Ago—I will awaken again tomorrow—
And strut out beneath the graveyards and
Swing-sets wherever I am—
To speak to the lost spirits panhandling the roads—
For there remains a song in my heart,
Or a spear in my side—
And there is a yet a movie theatre to venture into
With your name on it—smelling of the perfumes
Of abducted cheerleaders underneath the snowcapped
Mountains of my adolescent playgrounds.