To Their Own Conclusions Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The same memory waits for no one more
Than this—
With the days caving in like sink holes over
Our lives—
Words come to their own conclusions
Outside of throats played like instruments
By their hearts—
And we get up, evolved into our necessities,
Wanting a drink at the very start,
Some elixir so to fall in love without having
To look anyone in the eye—
Brown skins piling up in their cars like
An apiary on the road—
See all of these strange girls, a menagerie
Of a harem escaped from the outskirts of
Mexico—
And I love them all, calling them with my bedroom
Thoughts,
Turning my scarred architectures their way,
And sometimes they come again,
Like waves at high tide—
My sorcery the same thievery as moon light
Upon gravity—
But never mindful, they soon forget,
And go back on that usual road,
Yet sizzling with the filament bright enough to
Dull a Ferris Wheel—
And up until that very moment when they step
Back in doors I like to imagine that they
Think of me.