In The Time Of Your Sorrows Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Maybe I made love to you and maybe there are still Ferris
Wheels, Or maybe I am just as drunk as
A gold fish in its plastic bag sold away from your golden
Silhouette at the fair:
Maybe I am all of this and none of this is real:
Maybe I have stopped breathing, Alma,
Maybe you are all that is boreal under the moon, and maybe you are
All that can save me,
While various professionals make love: and marsupials and primates,
And the other detectives make love smack dap in their spot lights
While the more reclusive lovers of these endives sip and feel
In the gallows of the penumbras of high noon:
And maybe I will never know how to feel you, Alma,
But it is high time that all of the children awakened and wiped their
Eyes in awe and speculation,
Thoroughly recognizing the grandeurs deep in your despondent
Eyes that you loved an mailman high in the arid grandeurs of the departures
Of your old country, Alma: even though he could not hold you:
I took is place and loved you forever and tomorrow just to fill the caps
In the time of your sorrows, Alma, Alma, while he was away.