Like Washing Machines Inside Carports Poem by Robert Rorabeck

There will be fireworks and sad joys and more bird cages:
Maybe my aunt will come to New Mexico and reciprocate-
Maybe she had something left that she wanted to tell me,
But now I am on my own floor as warm and bloated as any zeppelin of
A boy who has come down to the peeps shows of quinceanera;
And when I work with you, Alma- I sing,
I sing and swell like beautiful pythons let loose amongst the banyan
Trees,
And dangling there like the distended pipe dreams of preschoolers;
And when I don’t work with you, Alma- I drink rum alone:
I am not much of a drinker, but you skin is beautiful, and you told me
That I was very smart:
And you tried to explain to me one of two things: that we should just be
Friends,
Or that you wanted to sleep with me and keep secrets from your
Abusive husband;
Either way, I will be fine as long as I get to see your jubilant contours out
Amongst the daylights;
And when I think of you Alma, why then I think of Christmas,
And I think of the absolute joy that every man must have for the things
That he love,
Fishing or going on the road- you are this for me, Alma:
You are my reason for my next breath, and for my next line, which may as
Well be my final line for you, Alma, for me tonight,
While you go to sleep with your husband hushed into the whispers of
The outer space on Cherry Road:
I will climb up on my own roofs next to yours and fall asleep, while the spaces
Of all of these chests and Spanish tombs whisper your name,
Like washing machines inside carports, like housewives shushing brooms.