Where She Belongs Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Diana, I count old issues before I sleep,
Before and while my mother is still watching me,
And bending the ass I came out of to count the
Trash;
And we both live so near I-95 where the tourists
Are still counting;
And the days leap so far, Diana, to be aflame;
Tomorrow I want to show you a copy of my book tomorrow.
Diana,
Because that is how desperate I am for your light;
Diana:
I get inebriated and count to myself to prove to myself that
I can still breathe, while my sick muse Sharon has a baby who’s
About to turn one in Colorado;
And her shade breathes with the penumbra of whatever moon
It is;
And maybe I love Kelly, who is this sweetly tattooed wife who
Lives in a trailer instead of a house in the middle of many a cricketing
Acre in the middle of Loxahatchee,
Like a narcoleptic lover to the golf courses and to the ceiling fans;
And tonight while I pretend to fold airplanes
All to be closer to Kelly’s lips, I dream of you as well,
Even though you can’t read poetry; even you my venal muse is filling the
Frothy jubilees for the more cavaliers gods well above both
Our heads,
I will sing to you moving around in your truck of ice and reefer,
Like something silky fine anthem from Antarctica who, I guess,
Doesn’t yet know where she belongs.