Maybe You Drink Alone On Sundays Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Lonesomeness is like another dimension,
Like a carnival forgotten in the woods, while not
Far off all the fairytales are smoking on their break:
And you are there,
And you are goldilocks or red riding hood, or some
Other, but you have your skirts pulled up,
And some wolf is lightning your cigarette:
I have to be going soon- the lawnmower is already in
The woods, mowing paths for you,
The Mexicans come singing cantos and staring at you
Illegally out of the dimmed corner of either eye;
And you let them, though they are not your favorite
Minstrels; and I think that if I could write better,
You would think of me. You would even think of driving
Up long crowded avenues to see the places where I used
To live, but I wouldn’t respect you then: That would
Be the expected tourism of a plague, and you would
Have to bake pies, and wash the dishes, and your little
Children behind their ears, but some people still live in
Africa, unprotected, far apart still believing a lost cause,
And saluting the flags of that heron-like confederacy:
Now I have no plausible excuse for this,
Better men are running wild in the city, shirtless beside
All the pools, tops down in all the traffic, having their
Way with this. Maybe you follow them for a little ways
Curious of such harems, and maybe you drift off. Maybe you
Drink alone on Sundays. Maybe you have pets I don’t
Know about, but it doesn’t matter- This is concluding;
As it should have concluded long ago.