Perfection Concrete In His Promise Poem by Robert Rorabeck

She doesn’t call and I learn to live alone in a hurricane,
The disembodied eyes falling dead upon me-
With each pupil dilating, I learn to step further from the
Door to the soul and embrace the changing medium of
The wind that sculpts mercilessly until I am the thought
Unremembered,

I have no place in my body, when she moves so far away
I feel her breathing next to me stepping out of my skin,
My hand passes hers’ as my thoughts drift back to the time
That never was, like her lips on my body, pressing what
She once was mercilessly against the flesh

She is the adaptation, the survival, when I am gone
She is still here, making love to the boys and the bodies
Who come her way and line up in her path,
The curves evolution takes, the athlete’s completion of
The race, stoned,
She lays in her bed and tries to remember how the rains
Hit her once as she fell awake, loving something distant,

The passion of a daydream laying in the sun, she
Walks down the hallway alone never thinking of the
Possibilities sleeping out on her yard waiting for her to
Step barefooted toward him, the imperfection of
His immediacy, the perfection concrete in his promise.