Our Souls Uncorking Flumes Poem by Robert Rorabeck

It now feels alright to wet my throat on the letters
Of a jaundice mind:
Now that the cars will move, the planes will fly;
And there is nothing more so professional that I can
Prove,
For I am just lying blind, like the bicycles in the aloe,
Like the housewives in the moon,
Moaning down in the sad epiphany all curled in
The old alma matters of the blouses of their
High schools,
As the chickens scratch chalk lines in the beach of
Dunes,
And latchkeys straggle home some hours after noon,
And turn off their souls and watch cartoons:
As Alma lies down in the blue bedroom, and forgets
About my inebriated cadences through all these
After hours, and yet her sunburned auburn flesh twitches,
And her lips hook a smile underneath her beauty mark
For a second of a while,
For she happily knows that tomorrow will bring her in
The morning breakfast, and by closing flowers;
And for as long as while I come beside her and both of
Us bushing our working brooms: tomorrows will always
Bring tomorrows, and our souls uncorking flumes.