Every Picture Of Her Ever Made Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Tussling, tussling on our brooms into dusk,
Never letting the long shadows from the sun exactly
Escape us: cheering with our bottles of
Liquors over the trees,
Make our complexion finely rummy:
Oh, I said she was beautiful,
I shouted across the land into her sports utility
Vehicle- She kind of looked up as if to
Understand, but her expensive shoes were already
Polishing the gas-
She had a new boy, so she wagged her fine a$s-
Maybe in the air-conditioning underneath the tinted
Shade she made a tear, but if she did it
Was Faberge- my words could not endear her to the
Weariness and literature of a grey-come sea:
I loved her, I loved her, yes indeed, but she was always further
Away, and always smiling in every picture of her ever made.