Making Love Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Possibilities in a sorrow that is drunken,
Finished- it goes slipping by the lushly ribboned
Stream,
A wish perfected by goblins or never perfected:
A little princess stolen away
And bereft of all of her dreams: corniced under the
Purplish verandas of willows,
Caulked in the apertures- in the gills of playboys,
In the fibrillating hollows to be
Filled with life, with lovers- as the cars stop
By wonderfully: they too are filled up
Under the lights of a world that is never sleeping;
And you can stop for awhile, and take in the atmosphere,
The salient haunts,
And the great shadows of the stadium in the distance
To be assured that this is real, and even lonely
She is somewhere nearby, like a tigress and making
Love- filled up by the fires of
Another man such as you- secretly but repeatedly:
Keys in the ignition,
And the tourists in their chicken wire, believing all that
They see- like a wedding procession moving beside
You, agape and leaping for the apples
Of their laughable haunts- and you, according there
Beside then, passably in orbit-
A zoetrope wanting a hand of another leaping shadow
To hold on to in the infinite midway
Of loneliness. As you wait in line, hearing her in the
Mad-fun house making love.