Estuaries Of Forget Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Lay with me like trysts of gold and I will forget who
I am or that I ever loved Alma,
And we will hold hands and drink the sad breath of the
Ceiling fans:
And nothing at all will be sold: all of the out of
Work prisons will clammer and din:
And when I look into her eyes tomorrow at the fruiteria,
Hopefully I will not be so easily trapped in,
While her husband calls her and she has to get up and look
Away,
As the airplanes fart and then attack each other on the
Nose bleeding planes,
Making us feel intimidated and threatened, while
The bums beat each other for quarters on the street corners
Underneath the red lights of the little girls who have
Forgotten who they are,
Who are so insatiably hard at working to forget into the
Deeper and deeper estuaries of forget.