The Pools Of Her Brown Eyes Poem by Robert Rorabeck

After the numbers of a chalkboard have vanished:
Just as with another day,
Words on the lavatory cubicles remain forever,
Misspelling forever of an abandoned love:
The housewives returned home, the apiary hiberning:
Swans on a golden lake turned into trinkets-
The otters in silky trances calling up make-believe:
Trumpets of mermaids and
Stolen bicycles- words which belong on a Christmas
Tree;
And I am learning Spanish, but I have not heard from
My muse all day-
Because the sun is a monarch butterfly in its arch:
And we are falling away from her, as she distinguishes
Who she is from where she came from:
She is adjusting herself to new fires, forgetting our
Expensive, alluring displays- because they
Are all spent before tomorrow- and her children bathe
Across her, slipping through the pools of her brown eyes,
Reminding her of how they once tugged on her
Brownness,
Until she is finally resounding, unafraid and so far away.