To My Comely Love Poem by Robert Rorabeck

She has whims, and they change
While I drink sake:
She wears all of my white gold I bought from her
Aunt,
Who ran down to Miami, where everything comes
From Cuba,
Or well- Oh well, Mexico:
And the night fights itself; and it curls around and sleeps
With mailboxes,
While the housewives are all fetched, and the baseball
Games are pleasanted-
She changes the rings on her fingers anyway: my alma,
But beautiful brown soul: she is twenty four years old
But no older than five,
And the jeans she wears are just as tight as how she wants
Me to pull her hair:
But she doesn’t want me to plant the magic beans in her:
Not now anyways:
But we are always getting married tomorrow, tomorrow:
And I plant dreams in her,
That curl around her five years of brown mind like a
Voyage she is just learning the tongue to speak
To provide recompense
For the things that I can never give to her, that she is still
Waiting around to receive:
Since everything comes to my comely love in time.