To Me With Kisses Poem by Robert Rorabeck

It flips over in good pools all over the world:
Her sisters write to me, thanking me for the strawberries I
Bought for Alma on Valentines
That she shared with them, one for each of her beautiful
Sisters-
And she calls me herself, my muse- and thanks me,
But doesn’t call me all of Sunday:
Her husband has taken her phone away and may be kidnapping
Her back into Mexico:
I read fantastical short fiction all the time while I wait for her:
I loose myself in the sunlight of my little yard,
As katydids disregard their seasonal armors on the armpits
And the thrombosis of the Kumquat tree:
Holding my breath- counting the zeros poorly armored in the
Sky,
And the ants killed namelessly by little boys- for Monday,
When she might lose herself from her family again,
Coalesce my little brown muse inside my little house,
And make love on more time,
Like a joyful train stealing around a Christmas tree- returning
To me with kisses and haunting me wonderfully-
Even if she can never love me.