My Vanishing And Beautiful Bay Poem by Robert Rorabeck

To the bodies who enjambment in spice and rigmarole:
And to the parasols that never open up even in the rain:
These are the emptied sidewalks of my adolescents to which I
Have to complain
Of my love to Alma, of my sweetly alcoholic and contemplative
Art:
That I have ejaculated into empty parks near the high schools
Of my first loves and their moribund dinner prints;
And never any of it was ever resolved,
As if I were Frank O-Hara, as if I were really gay: and her legs parted
Like a tennis courts of the red seas and that was all that there
Was to say;
But maybe you will be coming over again tomorrow and maybe we will
Be making love,
Because I really love you, Alma; and even though I wish to marry you,
All I have is song;
And you can never be my housewife, Alma:
All you can be is my conqueror- all you can be, finally, is the emptiness
Of sunset of my vanishing and beautiful bay.