Of Its Old Glory Poem by Robert Rorabeck

And all of it is beautiful slung over his shoulders
As he sojourns from the park:
Over there, right next to the fire trucks,
We once swung on the condemned swings: it was the last
Time or two I would swing on them,
Even after the red and then the yellow helicopters had
Left and gone out of sight:
And upon the rise beyond this, the small beach and
The sea so few Mexicans know about where
We returned together and I threw you over my shoulders
And into the waves
Even though you could not swim:
And, afterwards, we came back into the coolness of my
Little yellow house, like a butterfly house,
And made love with you atop of me atop of the wicker
Furniture,
Until you received a phone call from him and had to
Return to him,
As you would return forever to him—
Drawing your lamps with you, and all of the brown warmth
Of your false apiary: going to kiss and sting him as well,
Weren't you,
While the sunlight fell into all of its old glory like deadfall
Of a wounded horse over the stricken and wounded earth.