Swearing To My Abscent Steed Poem by Robert Rorabeck

If I try again, as if taking myself to the graveyard,
Skipping the schools of light, to read here with the witches
Who never looked more beautiful,
The clouds gurgling a spell in the sky, and all of the little boys
Home in their castanets hunting for cartoons;
It is because I want your lips whispering in my whispering room;
And it feels right now as if the moon has the power to bring
You straight over all of these streets that its luminance
Caretakes over,
And resurrects the call girls like weeds, and calls the alligators
To emerge from their aquatic seeds;
And it feels alright now even though the street lamps are
Without a church, as I am without your brown body,
Alma:
It almost feels alright, while tomorrow you will do you laundry
And clean your room, in the house that your father promised to you:
Maybe it will almost be yours, as your family extends into the bright
Yard into which your clothes are drying their secrets
As the world spins,
And the graveyards speak like windmills, gossiping of I on
My quixotic quest, imbibing the amber ness of your eyes,
And swearing to my absent steed that it should never have to end.