Who She Might Become Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Rivers flowing in the brown surceases of our
Ancient timbered veins:
And I sit on my couch with Alma and ask her who is the
President,
And what is the biggest longest river:
Alma is sincere, aquiline: Alma smells of oleander and night
Blooming jasmine,
But she doesn’t like how she cut her hair: I think she cut her
Hair for me,
Because that is what happens to women who find a new
Man to love,
And I kiss Alma during lunch and pull her closer to me,
To smell her sitting there
Still in the metamorphosis, as darling as a mother can be
Who doesn’t yet know who she might become.