Up Into A Blue World Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Making my neat rows of imperfections, I am almost over:
Weaponless, I am also out of liquor:
Just a squirt, and my dying world becomes hung over in your favorite colors:
I guess I shouldn’t write about you anymore, or at least not use your
Name so you will never find out
How imperfectly enamored I am;
And maybe I will make it through to Christmas and sell trees under
A tent,
But all the time I will be looking up into a blue world which doesn’t
Exist,
Because you have taken it away.