The Fabulous Water Fountains Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I’ve bicycled for an hour through
Palm Beach to the high swings in the svelte park
Across the dunes and the fiberglass beach:
And I’ve thought of Alma and touching her brown skin,
Like the lingerie of a feral mermaid who
Kisses you once never to come again:
And now all the world has become dark, and all of the mailboxes
Have closed their lips,
And there are no more Ferris Wheels even though I know that
It is even better like this:
That I can only sleep with her on Tuesdays, even though
She gets to open up all of her presents,
And even though I cannot teach, I am lucky to be working in the
Fruiteria next to her brown skin,
Even if she doesn’t know that she fully loves me,
And I turn her about and make images like a high spirited
Storm front in my frontal lobes,
And maybe now she coos to her daughter, and maybe she longs
To look into her mother Rosa’s eyes:
And when I look at her from a distance, she almost
Looks like my mother: and that is why I long for her, as the manless
Ships sail the invaluable seas,
While the starving pornographies await their newsletters,
As my many fingers tremble like whelps for the fabulous water fountains
Of her shaven legs.