Leaving Behind Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Emptied by my occupations, as by your thoughts:
This is how I dream out wounded on the perfect field,
Like the yellowest of birds with a broken wing,
Fallen from the roof of your house, fallen past the gold fish:
The little silken cadavers of your purses, and your cat;
And maybe I have dreamed of girls in Colorado,
Or girls just taking off, but I have always thought of them alone
In a tincan house upon which it is always raining-
And last night the thunder hit so hard that it made the world rattle;
And I couldn’t breathe because I knew you were taking refuge with
Your man;
And my place is a sunken place, like a bowl underneath a rock
Where the rains come gently, muffling, suffocating too the modern
Wonders that you are always leaving behind.