My Remaining Breaths Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The rum is an anesthetic; it is also a truth serum:
I took two Guatemelan boys past my yellow cottage today:
We swam in a car down concrete rivers:
I have the Virgin of Guadalupe on my back window
Instead of my state university,
Even though I have a master’s degree: It is better this way,
To buy houses with coquina fireplaces,
To cram oneself into little rooms again that are as good as
A century old,
Because those places have experienced so many moons,
And the earsplitting pleasures of bobcats
And heavy machineries:
Now today is Easter, or at least it will be this Sunday:
And the church girls will drive out to churches,
And the grave girls will drive out to graves:
Just as the honey girls will lead the cheers and the bust nudely into
The aperies of migratory apartments;
And I will have to think of her in this way just so I
Don’t have to cry,
As she slips out of her surplices and gives her time to the corduroy
Gentlemen who have as little moisture in them as
The sponges in the tidelands;
And I will dream of her slipping like sleek boats through
Watered down jungles, but only her eyes will brush pass me fawning
Like hair-lit moons,
Like places that have stolen their light from their parents or other
Burning guardians;
And she will go buy me light footed or winged: Then she will
Be gone, though I will not be able to stop thinking about her while
I draw my remaining breaths.