For A Supermarket Of Imperfect Unions Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Capitulating, as if they will finally eat themselves
In the fruitless ballroom:
And I have no children, which makes the world
Larger and full of the sounds
Of hollow machine guns:
And Alma only called one time this day, early in the
Morning while I was just arriving for work,
And she had done jogging with her sister,
And now I dream that I will have all of this money:
If it was that I was only more lucky, or more beautiful,
Or filled with the heavenly spirit,
While the sea spits at us all day long in her worried
Dress,
But especially entering the night and languishing in
Crepuscule when she is especially beautiful
And she really has nothing for us but all of these folklores
That are all blue in the face,
And I have really only been contemplating Alma’s eyes anyways:
How they go so far back in their folk memoirs anyways:
How it is that they transcend the theme parks of the smiling alligators
And the sad theme parks,
And maybe her body hums and purrs anyways: but I only have
This,
An unopened letter clinging to itself alongside the perpetual roadways:
And maybe it is that I will never know how I am,
But I have know Alma, and her every part of her gets more beautiful than
The others, perpetually,
Even while the monsters get more immense and bothersome,
But it cannot be adequately described,
And I can but wish that there was an epitaph carved in the fading
Stones of this world that pressed us together as if trying to squeeze
Out the perfumes of wildflowers into the floor boards of the
Carport,
Bringing her and I together across the floorboards that ached and
Clung together as the bisexual animals marched across their imperfections,
Trumpeting with their snouts for a supermarket of more perfect unions.