Licking Your Wounds From The Sky Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Liquor is the loneliness in the sun,
After you’ve forgotten your name or
How many times you’ve been here-
Hearing the classroom echoing, who reads you
Anymore- Who cares to gather you up before
The tide comes in, hurrying with all its lines to
Erase and take away,
And you are doing it again, pretending to be so proud,
Trying out the words of joy which seem to bloom
Spontaneously only to be revealed as things who aren’t
No longer there- The bad grammars of her
Womb, the young men you fought for and stole their
Cars and sucker punched when they weren’t looking-
When the scars taste so good, like fortified liquor,
And you’re pretty certain now to be one of their
Tribe, imbibing the migrating spirits like stewardesses
Metamorphosed in the tresses of debutant kites,
Really now falling over yourself to catch up with those
Shadows of those who are no longer there, or were
Never there to begin with until the forts and stores are
Closing, your dreams are rude and patronizing,
And you don’t know who you are where to go,
Out of ice cream and liquor, the sun a persistent thing
Licking your wounds from the sky.