From The Other Side Of The Canal Poem by Robert Rorabeck

It is my job
To get drunk and pray to you underneath
The sun-
Floating in the railroad tracks of the un busied
Weekends,
As beneath the rose bushes,
As all of my art is forsaken, and you go
Home to your husband: you say you do not
Love him.
But you go home to him,
And I climb mountains to get closer to the mountains
So I can taste the rain off their lips
As I curse your name,
And all of your high school turns around again-
What beautiful monuments that are not
Supposed to be ours,
As your direct your attention underneath the blue tarps
Of the weddings of another tourists trap-
You seem almost to belong in a museum,
While I’ve been cultivating my apiary,
Waiting for the sunlight to fall upon our lives,
Even after the goldfish has died-
And I want to take you towards the places I’ve
Already lived, and hopefully haunt those
Places with you as the sunspots flash across
The early morning carports from the other side of the canal.