Robert Rorabeck

Veteran Poet - 1,953 Points (04/10/1978 / Berrien Springs)

In Me, Alma - Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I am in my little house in historical west palm beach:
O, I can see all of the indiscriminate scars on my body, and almost
Hear all of the palliations of the sea:
How the fish are always coming up to be raised and then to be dying in
Her,
All the little boats slipping through her saltwater canals without
Any cares:
Then the werewolves loom and the mountain range comes up so
Sharp like undefined cutlery,
The esoteric heirlooms of you occult, and I can feel like I am alive,
Because I have seen the washrooms of your eyes,
Alma:
And you are brighter than anyone, even though you got turned out at
Such a young age:
And, Alma, I just wished that I was saved: I ate two hotdogs tonight
For my dinner, Alma,
And I bought you and my mother both Mother’s Day cards,
Because I didn’t know what else to buy you:
And this metropolis is so big, Alma, but we still live close to five minutes
Away from each other:
While, I am sure that you know that these bodies live, they really live;
And we dig all day to burry holes for different types of palm trees,
But now you body really moves,
Alma;
But I have no greater wish then in the deity that is transplanted next
You and your kids at the petty zoo; if that body was mine, then all of the
Greater professions of the science museum would have nothing
At all that could be proven to me:
But we would have drums and buses and ways to get out of sight and into
Our other worldly destinations;
And if there is a goddess, then I have believed in her; and I see her every
Day, Alma;
And I believe in her: Oh, Alma, won’t you ever believe in me?


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Poem Submitted: Saturday, May 8, 2010



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