In The Heavens And The Choruses Poem by Robert Rorabeck

You hurt me; and we have forts here where we don’t have
To grow up,
But we still have to sing; and I miss the idea of your communion-
And how you held your breath while you crossed the fronteras
And the other things that you could not sidestep on the move:
Alma;
And you tell me you will play with whomever you want to play with,
As long as they don’t touch you, like conquistadors leaving their
Prints behind stained glass:
Well, whoever he is, is a luck moth$rFucker and your children,
Well they still have mouths to feed, and places to grownup,
And horses to need: and they will go this way- and one day they will
Have to stand over the grave of their mother-
And it will rain, and the sun with rise geriatric again like in a wheel chair
I pushed her; but they will never have to know
How I wished for her out in the autumn and on the arc of the swings:
Their mother- starving with her brown eyes a color that needed into
The world, and which I loved- and she loved me;
And we sang together and made love in the heavens and the choruses
That they will be oh so happy to never know.