See Her Again Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The night is windy and bushy airplanes
Sideways,
And these are the things I have to say to me
Love,
Anyways:
That, rightfully, I am not her man,
And if her painted nails were to brush across me
Like a high altitude drug,
She would discard me as a bruised fruit,
And the dry crackling palms would fall across
My head,
And the saints would close their candles,
And all of New York and Saint Louis would shut
Down to see my approaching in
My shanty ways;
And I loved her still, but it was underground,
Calling up through the oil wells of third world nations,
While her house spindled up on forever
With jubilant legs the airplanes circled like lightweight
Toys on strings,
Their motors Beethoven, Mozart, Brahms,
Or another of those shmucks;
And I fell down weeping and clapping belly shot before
The movement was over,
And yet my eyes were still up and lit long enough to see her
Fall exhausted and sweaty like a school girl off of her
Bicycle into the arms of what she perceived to be a better,
Better polished man,
So finally I was broken, and never took the bus,
And never went to school to have to
See her again.