Stealing Everything That I Prayed To Find Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Stealing Everything That I Prayed To Find



Day by day this body awakens, flatulently
Renewed,
Like your body, an old friend, misplaced,
Remembered,
But somehow remembers to pick your sisters up from school,
While the oranges grow in the orchards
Underneath the hills of Spain; and you have had your breakfasts
Of lovers,
And you lie with him now, after he has done at cards and
Smoking,
And his donkey ears have almost become comely enough for
You to remember to love him,
Alma:
While I am still up under the copper garments of another ungodly
Warf, being persuaded by the cat or the fox
To bury what gold I have left on the
Beach,
While my uncle or my father is getting filthy rich;
But if I am really lucky enough, I will spend all of my last Tuesdays
With you,
Cradling you in the obnoxious sea, because you cannot swim,
And then writing about: how you strip and wear my shirt
And we make love: why we still make love even while he calls,
While your children
Are away at school, like educating fairytales,
Until everything finally has to pull away, to pick up and uproot
From my heart,
The way my parents left me, or the way my dogs still pine in
Arizona:
Because you are as brown as a gypsy, stealing everything that I prayed
To find.

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Robert Rorabeck

Robert Rorabeck

Berrien Springs
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