Their Stewardesses Baring Wine Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Your bedroom of skin lays across the railroad
Tracks,
Alma,
Lays underneath the vast, immeasurable plans of the sky:
While the earth cavorts,
The sun spinning it around like a magnanimous child,
Easily assured of its games:
While the airplanes take off, and the rockets flame:
Until your skin is done with the hypnotisms of blowing glass,
And finally the ghosts of your ancestors have gone
And past my home
At holidays, and at Christmas, long before I could have second
Thoughts which were not my own;
And you promises me, Alma, that that was the last time
You would tell me that you loved me,
But the sea did foam; and the dogs got up on their hind legs for
Awhile and pledge themselves to the pale word of
Their inebriated gods;
And they roamed around the hillsides, and made love to foxes;
And this is how it was for the longest time,
The airplanes fermenting, their stewardesses baring wine.