Foolhearted Voyage Poem by Robert Rorabeck

If I describe you fool heartedly, isn’t it that
I love you,
And I hate to go off and leave you to sell fireworks, just
As I hate the things you make me promise you,
Because we spent our foreplay on my goodwill couch
Good enough for any whitewashed family,
Good enough for the longest rivers of America,
And I helped you try and find out how to become a citizen of
This great country,
But not because it was your country and that you wanted the vote,
But because you needed the status to save your mother from the
Newest immigration laws,
And how many times then did I tell you that I loved you:
Alma, and how many times did you say that I
Was lying,
But even with all of that how much did I discover about you in
A couple of hours,
The willing journeys we took together, and I will always wish
To be more beautiful for you,
Alma, and I wonder if you know how absolutely beautiful you
Are: In your strange opulence you far outstretch my
Previous muses,
And you are the only one who has given her body so readily to me,
And I love you and kiss your lips like a starving conquistador
Who has bungled upon your drinking fountain in amidst the
Savages of a concrete jungle,
And I wish to appease you somehow, and to call you out of the
Somnolence of your parents house,
But also to congratulate them for all of which they have accomplished
In the short seven years they have been in this country-
All of that time I have been mostly celibate,
And dreaming of how to reinvent the light bulb or of other girls
Like weak butterflies less perfect than you,
But now that I have found you out, I am a like a struggling dog
Who has finally made it home,
And I finally have something to believe in, because the
Virgin of Guadalupe has answered my prayers and delivered you up
To me:
You wear her golden visage about the grotto of her neck:
I think you might be the embodiment of her immaculate
Spirit, Alma, but anyways I have prayed to her several times tonight,
And thanked her for you,
But since I have finished off the page with this poem
I should say no more,
But fall asleep and thus set out on another voyage to figure out
Any other means of finding you.