Pulsing Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Pulsing, the woman is not real
Or, she is like something far underneath
The ocean which gives off her own light,
As if she was a star evolved that learned to
Swim and copulate with the dark mysterious
Things which come out of her bar
And walk home with her after all
The students are finally sleeping….

Then the world is wet and dreamy as
They hold hands, the way beautiful things
Sometimes do. I have never seen them, though
I have walked down the streets alone many years later
And followed the trail to her doorstep and
Inside they make love and her lights pulsate,
Something alive and giving of herself,
Humming like power-lines under her control
And I wonder what she must feel with
The effervescence flowing out of her like
Casual daydreams….

As the rains come gray in the sadness of
A forgotten god, I walk alone trying to figure
Her out, and sometimes she goes flying overhead
Like a meteor or a jet, and it is a secretive kind of
Flash, like something that is leaving never to return,
Like the smile she gave to me in high school
Before she realize what she was and took off….
A heavenly body too quick for wishing upon
And I try and reach out to her thinking that
Her internal furnace would keep me warm,
Like a fire crackling in its earthen hearth,
And I could set up a house around her and let her
Run all the appliances from her fingertips,
But she is already in another world….

Pulsing, as if she wasn’t real, like a
Bright angel who used to guard me from the darkness,
Who has since tasted the red fruit of a handsomer
God and ignited for him, all afire,
Like something burning deep beneath the sea.