Like A Lamp Underneath The Sun Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The moon looks like a lamp underneath the sun
And now I remember that you are not speaking with me—
And my jaw is swollen—
And this night, Hurricane Ivan is making his run up the
West coast of Florida—
And I am on my ninth poem—the passengers are already asleep:
They are done with looking out of their windows—
And the world beneath them is a joy to the eyes of
The foxes—who have clouded over in their
Vineyards—and we are a happily done with all of that specific
Stuff—I don't even know why you had to follow
You husband up to the backyards of Ocala—
But there you are still with him—
As the fireworks lie smoldering beneath the orange trees,
And the mermaids have come up from
God-blessing the petals of the lotus—which is the favorite
Flower of my wife—but she is still in China—
And with child, incase you didn't understand.