The Heavens Who Cannot Recognize Me Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Shallow as the necessary
Habitats of our stock,
I do this like a theme
Given over to a wish
Never arranged,
As the tibouchina tree loses all
Of its purple blooms
In the shade,
As the stewardesses grow
Melancholy touching down
Pilotless,
Embarrassed of amusement,
My song is hollow, secreting
Out from the throat of
A bird whose voice is
Never so pretty as to
Attract its soul mate,
Who is already in another man’s
Bed or pie;
So I still sing like the dead up through
The gambits of mystified sky,
To all the heavens who cannot
Recognize me as their love child.