Tapered Across The Salty Grave Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Now we have especially fond windmills that play
Cards over our houses:
The house if filled with cats, the field with mouses;
And the silent joys of rum burn upon my lips,
As my mother finally gets up from counting the bills
And goes into the bathroom to look at herself:
My mother is very beautiful: She is probably while I am still
Searching for beauty,
Why I am still unmarried: I get mistaken every day for her
Brother or her boyfriend, and I count myself lucky:
She still looks so young standing next to the candles of her
Unlucky wedding,
But I no longer want to marry a white woman: My mother is
Beautiful, but she is incredulous and republican:
The manipulation of the migrant worker under the penumbras
Of our Disney World continues to murder the unicorns;
And I love Alma now, my very soul:
She will never love me, but there are other Mexican women to love:
You have to get them while they are very, very young if you don’t
Want to raise another vato’s children, but I don’t
Mind the extra work, because it is just a little more to love
Before I fall down forever more like a hoary raven, an angel
Turned to ash by revenging lighting to kiss the proverbial lips
And the carbuncles tapered across the salty grave.