On Tuesday Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The soup of my legs runs over the spokes of my
Bicycle; it feels as if I’ve been eating eggs with
Alma for breakfast again,
Even though I was alone for most of the day:
And I ran so fast back and forth beside the sea, with the
Rich houses staring over my right shoulder,
And the rest of the world away or at least too high up in
The clouds to reach;
And their yards are beautiful if short and misspelled:
And the ants crawl up like runny veins into the open of
The middle class orchards that cultivate nothing
But short tempered housewives;
And it blooms like this some if not most of the time,
While I keep the reality of my lies like a fleece over my
Shivering body,
As the airplanes achieve their destinations not unlike the
Orgasms I gave Alma after her unsuccessful protests
On Tuesday.