My Room Is Transitory Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Green light flecks and splits
Like the wings of a swan through the crooks
Of a lime tree.
Joe was born in Holland and his father farmed
Pale celery in the upper muck bottoms
Of Michigan.
Tomorrow is thanksgiving and we’re getting in
A load of Christmas trees.
I will think of you,
While the steady hands of the sun hold my face
Up for the inspection of
So many harmless eyes;
And I will think of you,
And then at night when my mechanism is unwinding
I will find new ways to be untrue to the unhappy
Empiricisms required
From this insurmountable fleet of tourists,
Because I understand that my room
Is transitory,
But if I want to move on, all I need is you.