That There Are Still Green Promises Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Now if there are cops underneath the airplanes
Who look as if they are wearing their mothers’ jewelry far into
The night,
Why let them come in their magic cloaks, as long as I get
To skip my way through art class
And reach my hands about your throat:
That brown vase that stokes your eyes, the pillages the ladders
Of your chest,
That keeps on pumping blood like a fire-engine:
That is unreal and lays counting beside the man who is your husband:
He has come again,
But he is also going away: as far as to another underworld where
He will be reprimanded for saying that he can find another woman as
Good as you in the next street corner as you drive:
And now I do this: I write bad poetry in the heat of my inebriate
Passion,
Because I cannot teach, and I do not have a boat, but I have too much
Money,
But nothing to loan my poor, beautiful and finally wayward father:
He is lost in the desert of the stars, underneath the shadows of the
Horses,
While last Tuesday I manipulated you in the bed that was previously
Owned by a homesexual and an artist of seashells:
The bed that has held four women so far for me, and your goddess;
And you asked me if you were my toy as I turned you around,
And then you asked me if I wasn’t going to do you like a dog,
But I assured you that you are my vida perfecta: and that you are my
Linda perfecta; and after we were done you made me feel like a
Super hero all week,
And when your man goes away, I want to take you to the sea and make
Love to you in the bedrooms of the caesuras,
Because I think I know who you are, Alma, for you are my only reason
For know that there are still green promises in this life.