To Be Returned Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Sometimes I climb the scarred hoods of
Mountains three at a time;
And I take of my old baseball cap and
Toast the storm,
Wait for lightning to teach me, but it
Is a fickle institution,
Far above your head and your erogenous
Arousals,
Like a haughty amusement park for ants
And beetles if we had any;
And very soon your daughter will grow up
To know everything you had to spill into
Her,
Whatever fell out of your sweet turnip truck and
Into her moist lips,
And I think it so sad that she might never
Know how to spell the sweet crèches of those
Mountains that live forever
Like blind men, as you are to them,
As you push your daughter in the swings of your
Back yard,
Wanting her to fly a little bit,
Never temping her with the danger of the
Burning sun,
Or the places I have seen god aroused, wounded
And dying,
And yet still crying your name,
As he ran away from me, escaping deeply quill-ed
With that unrequited love
I can never hope to be returned.