High Up In That Colorado Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I cry in my house in Florida:
I cry and try not to breathe: the virginsita sits in my
Foyer as green as an aloe’s sheath:
And the cars gossip so loudly through the day,
But at night, and deep at night they have such very little to
Say:
Like Alma’s love for me, they sleep, in the grottos of their
Love,
Wishing they had courage to end the incredible loneliness
Of my parade,
While all the sky puts on a play before getting teary eyed
And coming down as rain,
And my truancy of words remembers a high school it never
Believed it,
So it rides stolen bicycles up to the roofs of super men,
And there it seems to loll forever,
Trying to become Alma’s favorite color, while the alligators
Turn purple,
And their virgins put off their lights, figuring that all of
Their knights have turned far too old to care for them:
And the moon cups and whispers to the wildflowers
Disturbed by no other men and yet utterly beautiful deep in
Their airy beds high up in that Colorado.