The Ashes Of The Movie Theatres Poem by Robert Rorabeck

What a piece to say I love you:
While saying this not besides any road I can remember—
But inside the fruiteria the same highways that afflicted my senses—
And you were going home to garner in your accoutrements
The liniments of the triages of once sweaty bedrooms:
The hand that opens upon the egg
Like espionage takes a place besides the pretty boarding rooms,
Like a dolphin haphazardly nuzzling the bonfires
Of the cul-de-sacs of the housewives
After they have gone inside from offering the wintery
Crepuscule their offerings of cheap roses—
So in the antechambers of America,
The airplanes flew with their pilots,
And I said I love you’s to a million cadavers or marionettes
Or manikins—
Giving a cajoling tongue to the empty places
Where we made so many woebegone promises—until
The angels flit away like butterflies,
Over all that was left:
The ashes of the movie theatres, and the flitting embers
Of what you had decided to become.