Her Final Man Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The firefly of sun creams its own shade:
It does this over the playgrounds, over the old hats of
Neighborhoods:
Its dance is on fire; its hemisphere running out of room,
And still it goes and swims, and turns;
As she tells me she can never have another husband:
She will only be single after this browny government should
Fail:
But she still shaves and wears miniskirts for me:
I call her my rainbow, and the butterfly to my soul: and we
Sell fruit together:
Like a knight, I eat habanero peppers to prove my love until
She blushes, or I tickle her feet when she is like
Cinderella overcome by the counter, cleaning, clean:
She asks me to stomp cockroaches, my Alma, the queen on
My soul,
But I let them leave, like a quixotic knight all flushed out
Under the windmills while the cats are milking
And the moon: and, oh the moon;
And then I follow her down the highway for just as long as
I can, but I have to finally have to turn down the other tributaries
Of my bachelor avenues, since, because, alas,
I am not her final man.