The Sounds To My Sorrows Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Each raindropp dancing along in the cowbell games of
Their brotherhood,
Patting the head of my trailer and engorging the skirts of
Her canal:
People live under this cool sheen: people everywhere,
People in cars, and people in buildings,
Folding over and to sleep in airplanes- related or unrelated by
Thought or inclinations,
Forever and everywhere like the living echoes of their graves;
And I think how rains should relate to people in the
World that we share,
And I think of Sharon, or a muse somewhere; lighting up the
Mountain, all eager to get somewhere,
Wolves curling like kittens, her warm underwear; and how we
Shared the atmosphere of schools together,
Each Monday a warm renewal- the presence of her body a breathless
Art gallery- the rains would come then and make her faster,
While I slept under the bleachers and listened to her laughter;
As I still sleep under the mobiles of all of my tomorrows,
Because both school and Sharon have gone away;
And the rains on Sundays and Mondays always bring back home
The sounds to my sorrows.