Except For Yourself Poem by Robert Rorabeck

My heart drinks its rum at the movie theatre
The day after we make love,
And I look up airplanes through the ceilings,
The piñatas and the paper fans,
And I see for a little while that I keep
Feeling for you,
A blind man in an empty playground-
Because you are not here:
It rains, and I see your sisters at the supermarket;
It is like a dream that I’ve been trying
To tell myself is still alive-
Trying to buy something beautiful even though
All of the shelves are empty,
And I will have to arise another Lazarus
And teach school tomorrow with a broken nose-
Knowing that my art is bankrupt;
It is not even sugarcane art, and you don’t
Deserve it- and my virginsitas stare with open
Eyes at my barren pain, after the festivals
You soughed inside my chest have packed up
And trunked all of their singing butterflies;
And you keep your roses in your gardens
With your hearts and queens,
And no one paints them for you except for yourself.