The Footpaths Of Our Winsome And Lonely Pride Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Churlish favors the brown eyes of boys
Almost in a caravan through the comely passage,
Almost hers; and then separated and made to
Fend for themselves,
Made to eat pinecones, made to stock shelves.
Becoming literary majors, living every day in a sad
High school,
Looking at empty granaries as if they were the
American Basin up from Ourey stocked with wildflowers
And wild scuppernongs;
This is my trance, one of these post-modern hop-a-longs
Where outside under the ice-clouds in penumbras of frost,
The trailer parks glitter in fish stocked streams,
As shimmering as gaudy ribbon spending my days off with
My dogs,
I can call her up like bright rings, both instances of sound
And water coloring- Presupposing she is with any man,
I guess she is, but how can she know anything about him,
When she combs over my world like this,
And spreads my seeds without even knowing to the four
Happiest of winds,
My dogs leaping like airplanes over Telluride and then back
Again jaunting tongued the footpaths of our winsome and
Lonely pride.