From Your Fountains Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Wound up by whatever hypotheses are in my labyrinth
And suffering nightly-
In the cooling estuaries of a suburbia I was never allowed
To attend,
While my brown muse sinks into her husband,
And all around her the tamed natures of my America sing:
Dear Alma, you have two children,
And you wind up so far away from me: you have never flown
Minisculed into the rafters of my overweight houses;
You have never been with me across to another world
On the other side of the canal,
But I have tasted your lips like priceless penny candy;
And your body has sunken into my own,
A body that ululated with the needs to be set free;
And into another night, remaining scarred and alone,
And underneath the flight path of ambivalent airplanes,
I sing another song- deafly muted into your window,
Hoping that you will look up and remember- and touching
My hand with gentle hopelessness, winding away into
Another world where the expectations of your family fall away-
Shed like katydids from high school,
And all I am is there for you- set free, a dream of promises
And bouquets that drink from your fountains never to die.