The Footsteps Of My Beautifully Yellow House Poem by Robert Rorabeck

My house, indifferent and yellow:
Yellow on the outside, yellow within: a beautiful yellow
In which to entrap Alma with these dreams,
To smear her skin with the wet postcards of my lips,
To finish her like a wolf in the kitchen of my bed:
The way a fable should never have to end,
But it does: but it does;
And Armando says it is too yellow: eight-five years old
And filled with the ghosts of an arcade of millipedes,
But too yellow:
He is from Mexico too, and his English is good, but he
Is too jealous, and he loves my mother,
But she is in Phoenix and too far away to do it any good;
But when the sun comes up, he laughs over the
Rabbits mastigating in their little colonies in the even littler
Yards that section away the one way street:
For he knows that the yellowness of my house is nothing at all,
For he baked the belly of Alma’s Mother Rosa until she
Yawned and came awake in that alligator pool of flesh,
And has done the very things I would like to do to her,
While I have at least five Virgins of Guadalupe in my house, whose
Brows and holy children I kiss,
And stand back and listen as the brownness of waves whispers
And gossips up to the footsteps of my beautifully yellow house.