One And Only Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The memory of your auburn body,
Even though known but casually,
In the passing of those bleached halls,
Will forever be my only muse:
And that is why I am so lonely,
Just me and my dogs reclining in lawn chairs,
Drinking rum punch- Tongues lulling,
The whole lot, bags of fireworks and p*rn-
The simple amusements which can hardly
Distract from you; and us
Just homeopathic whelps far diminished
Along the settled rockslides of the uncountable
Slopes I envision you sculptured-
A lady of crackling natures,
There are so many ways to paint you
Long after the night has stretched and, masked,
Everything can truly said to be beautiful,
Like your cousins;
And everyone I sat in class with, are now housewives
And lawyers-
All the beautiful blonds are grayed
And fitted into the bricked foundations
Of the situations they strove so hard for;
and their names have changed so many times,
Their faces too are now but the dull reflection of
A quieting sea
And the moonlight is leaving them
To watch kittens being born-
How many of them have you served
Your drinks to, your body smiling;
But what did it mean? Which one of them are you for?
And still I saw you jogging casually alongside the
University, your fingers unbanded, your legs so high
Up like wonderful crutches that, leaping,
Might carry all of my scars, if not my name:
You were so free and bending almost claimable
By the fox, and still I did not have you:
And I haven’t even seen one ripple of your areola,
But in these nightly destinations they attend me,
Sweltering stewardesses of sweet penumbra,
And I watch wasps digging in fleets through the cells of
Your feminine flesh, depositing in you flowers,
Bringing their young to you as I would have brought mine;
And even if the seasons retreat, even as the chrysalis is
Left empty and weeping on a sallow branch,
I remain with you through it all, your echoes what
Scientists pine for,
The boreal architectures of your legs the tributaries
Of an undivided sea;
And even now that I should never see you again,
I hope that you might come weeping to my grave
And drape me in your sweet nest
For you have always been my only muse.