Like The First Letters Of A Place Poem by Robert Rorabeck

She does not call me: she hasn’t gone out shopping,
And I imagine the panties she must wear in bed: and I am
Foully envious even though I know that eventually she
Will be well shaven when she comes out
Of her shell to see me again;
To make love and moan like preschoolers enjoying the saccharine
Tastes of fieldtrips,
And the soft memories that they almost cannot even spell:
Like the first letters of a place that once enjoyed they can never
Go to again.