Shelters Breathed Not From Wood Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I look at pictures of your new haircut: you holding your daughter
And swaying a smile against a peg-board:
The light of your eyes admitting maybe that you once loved me
In the Magical Kingdom with the other seniors on their
Way to college or at least the concession stand:
And today I am drinking Bermuda rum as dark as the hoary seals:
If I was a narcissist, I would get new tattoos on my joints
That connect me like the spokes on a bicycle; but every morning
I am Lazarus to the news that you are selling, breathing in your
Little shops when we once inhaled a classroom together.
Now outside it is raining, and I am absolutely alone. My pets are
In Arizona. I am closing on a house that is too small for all of us,
And I spend my life in movies, like quarters into little whirligigs.
Today I went to the dollar store and blew my lips into pinwheels,
And now I am writing about you, because you are too far away to
Do me anymore harm:
Your snow is melting and very soon different sorts of tourists will come
Up into the parade of wildflowers. Today I bought sixteen articles of
Clothing for four dollars just to impress you, and I spent my birthday with
Our mutual teacher: Now my blood is roller-skating in its avenues,
Like virgins soon to become stewardesses,
As I know you are yet happily breastfeeding your firstborn child,
Fearing the time that she will let off of your body, like a vagrant letting
Go of a kite,
Though I would not worry as I am sure there will be many more to come:
As your park is green and mutual, and I go into it whenever I can
To watch the pretty ladies dancing in a pantomime of endeavoring commitment;
While the sun flickers and moves your body in frames;
And I build shelters for you in hidden glades, but they are immaterial,
As they are shelters breathed not from wood.