From Mexico Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Enveloped like a wino in the beautiful loneliness
Of a park
I think of things that everyone thinks upon while alone:
Alma calls me on her way to work,
Says we can only be friends:
She won’t call me again for a week;
I write about her- I sleep alone; the city writhes,
Shadows gesticulate to one another:
She kisses his lips on Christmas
And then looks away
And thinks of me;
And her children at home
Wonderful and filled with so little pain
It is almost impossible to imagine
That they were birthed from a mother who ran
Away from Mexico.