Most Unnecessary Of Things Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The mountains have no names that they have
Given to themselves,
But at least I have never made love to any of my cousins;
And that is exactly what Alma told me the last time
We were in bed,
Last Friday morning, turning into me and moaning with
Her brown summers,
While I was sure that somewhere above us some airplanes
We turning around, or at least
Advertising:
And there were windmills and cartoons,
But there she was, summering my bed with the warmth
That even the angels don’t have;
And I am sorry that I haven’t provided her with any individual
Stanzas,
But this again is for her, even after she has gone home,
And is sleeping with someone else, even if they aren’t
Making love,
The horse is still cantering doggedly towards the summit,
Mad beyond words because some reintroduced wolves have
Eaten her foals again without her consent;
And some man’s hands turns up the volume again on the news,
As the hot air balloons are rising:
They are trying to stretch their luck to the moon,
Who is laughing gibbously at them, waiting for the world to turn
Away again, to leave their dreams stranded somewhere mid summit
In the beautiful harems of aspens
Whose pale skin blushes at the reintroduction of all of these
Otherwise most unnecessary of things.