Like A Heaven That Vanishes Indoors Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Like A Heaven That Vanishes Indoors



Bones lain in a house—
Reclining next to the Virgins of Guadalupe
And the plastic roses:
The first rose I gave to her in April or May of
2009 still stuck in the trellis
Next to the stucco painted yellow,
But now just a stem:
She called me a week ago but hasn't
Called me again:
She lives north of Disney World now,
Waiting for her husband to come
Back from Jacksonville
And maybe that will make everything all right—
Going out and buying meat for
Dinner,
Keeping her children close—close to
Her,
And driving back home underneath the power-lines,
Clouds performing away to a sea she never
Goes to—
Like thoughts of me and the fruit-market
We once made love in—
Waiting for the man she was destined for
To drive home through the saw-grass,
Returning from forts she has never seen with
Her eyes—
No longer concerning herself with me laying my
Drunken bones across the roof of
His house—
And then he is home, like a heaven that vanishes
Indoors.

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Robert Rorabeck

Robert Rorabeck

Berrien Springs
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