The Food She Did Not Cook For Me Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Another night alone into this world
And I am feeling fine and thinking of Alma:
How she must be cozied up to her husband by now:
Why her children are softly breathing so far
Away from graveyards,
And they will grow up and think for awhile
And then swim away;
Then maybe Alma will come to me in the dusk of
Weeds and tulips beside the leaping roads,
Because I know that she already loves me,
But she cannot get away:
I know that Alma already loves me, and the sun comes
Up and emotes, streaming down the strings for
Angels.
And the spiders quiver in their spindling abodes,
And the trout wonders,
And her family sleeps together in their little
World not so far afield from my own:
I can almost feel her breathing. Like the zephyrs
Kissing the backs of otters and wildflowers,
And it all turns around for awhile:
And I held Alma’s brown hand today and looked into her
Eyes,
And ate the food that she maybe did not cook for me,
But fed to me all the same.