Of Its Ever Young Tarmac Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The moon felt good when I slept on the roof
Of your house for two hours:
He felt good, and maybe you made love to your brown
Man,
That astronaut who smokes but never leaves the earth,
But who doesn’t beat you anymore:
Whom you said to me two days ago hasn’t talked to you
For two days:
But now you lay down beside him again, like as if your
Little sub stellar room as another garden of Eden,
And one of you was the lion
And one of you was the lamb;
And I was just the winged serpent up in the planks
Overhanging the heads of your children: following you to
The super-super market and telling wishes,
Like I did today: following after you, Alma, and your
Heidi,
Laughing as you let her smell the shampoos; and helping you
Make a choice,
And kissing your head, and leaving your money,
Watching your two year old daughter stop dancing like a pinwheel
For awhile,
And as still as a wingless airplane all doused in the brown apertures
Of its ever young tarmac, watching me either fly or slither away.