To The Sport's Loneliness Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Spilling their contemplations down my throat,
I think of our honeymoon in Shangri-La—
Of all of the plasticine bedrooms attended underneath the
Porcelain moon, as my hand found your ghostish thigh
And knew who you were in the fermented darkness,
While my thoughts wondered back across the airplanes
Like skipping stones,
To some ghost of a park in California,
Where I left my dream that way behind—
Where I couldn’t look at my face, ruined in my post-
Adolescents—
And all of those dreams I had forgotten with me
As I drove back to Arizona—
The lost tankards of dreams—and now, in this
House in the middle of my life,
New accoutrements to the sports loneliness find their
Place inside my lips that speak of the whispers
That nest inside my mind.