Heirlooms Of Another Life Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I have done nothing wrong-
But this is the curse of the proceeding afternoon:
Looking up through the horoscopes of
Peeling, soft-brown yards- strictly speaking:
The Mexicans lingering, bodies like the first evidence of
Autumn- as she goes out of me-
This muse who has promised me so much, like
The tide- the innocent sculptor underneath the airplanes-
She will go away again, and this time I cannot
Linger to pick up the pretty shells revealed inside of
Me from her vanishing:
I must go as well- into the heirlooms of another life
I must vanish,
As the lions yawn dismissively- they too have only kissed
So many men- and in their careless afternoons not
So many have thought of me.