Where That Must Leave Me Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Two bodies, opposable-ly jarred
Sequined by mud,
The remunerations of the forget-me-nots of
Their vanished children,
Tasseled like silver comets still buzzing
Around each other,
Glowing-up at night like sticks in a fire;
And they make love
No longer fearing the population of the earth;
The bicycles unused and asleep
In the tool-shed.
The rabbit asleep beside it, restive of heart,
Not wearing any tennis shoes;
And it’s a good old world, perfectly done:
There are tennis courts on the elbows,
And money in the bank-
While all your clay pots are waiting on shelves.
Each one has a name,
While you are with your husband in the first
Numbers of this countdown-
Not even thinking as your pinwheels finally cool,
That you should finally come
Down from harassing to the lake where my
Parents sleep,
And being like them, making love across the ripples
Of sweet Colorado,
Always waking up like flowers on the mend and
Where that must leave me.