Like Any God Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Whatever joy that there is walks the streets
Down to the rose garden
For a single tear- or an uncoupled word beside the
Church, as blue as she is-
She cannot fly- There she is, waiting in the flesh of
Her birthday,
Because that was all that I could write for her,
As the days held over as if in a traffic jam-
Waiting for her with the cloisters of honey in
The apiary made out of a dry rotting home,
While the cross
That they held up to her muse vanished in the waves
With the rest of the Indians,
As the wet sea horses came upon the land-
The trucks and the iguanas watching them, inside the little
Places in which they were left- and I was there,
Armless, captured by her blue eyes upon a carpet
Or upon a canvas invented for her,
The pain I was feeling for her like any god that wasn’t even
Real.