To Prove To You Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I walk to your house some nights, Alma, and sleep
Across it,
Because that is my migration, even if it makes you angry and
Less likely to talk to me;
You still come to me in the few hours that you can and become
A tiny brown marionette whose strings are like
The spit of caterpillars I succeed from:
And do those things for you that you always had planned:
Instead of watching televisions with your family,
I go outside and still the lactating flowers from the landscaping of
Creamy white housewives:
And then I gallop along the shadows of waves so gallantly and so
Cruel,
To cut myself through the broken promises of your front yard;
And lie there famishing and exasperated like something cruelly punished,
Just to bring to you all that I have thought of you:
And to prove to you all that you truly are.