Cruel Winter's Shade Poem by Robert Rorabeck

There are times when you must be real,
And tinctured in the mountains of a wimpled soul-
Not just these words,
Like toys dragged up from a sea chest, moderate
Attempts to make me whole-
So I haven’t seen you from high school, and I am
Wounded so-
You have dogs, and I have dogs which make us whole,
And we are both at the top of the food chain,
Or I guess the rumor is that you were, a flight attendant,
A modest success who endears to lower class angels;
Or at least I’ve heard-
Always in the clouds, don’t you get nose bleeds and
Commercial airliners come roaring down your streets,
You toast the busy passengers in their business neats,
And then listen as some busy coyotes drain the bleated
Bleats:
But that is just how I have occasion to imagine you,
Your eyes as changeable as a stormy arcade,
And I guess you have that too- in an aerie the glaciers made,
Illuminant and wimpled, really in the cold, cruel winter’s
Shade.