One Thing Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Wounded in your everyday throes:
Looking forward, looking back- and all the time
Mad at love,
While something purple grows- through the city’s
Cracks, that fit like gloves:
The young boys through them lost as dimes thrown
Into the lobotomies of department stores:
While something more beautiful becomes lost into
The higher aeries;
And it feels as if for a while she is with child,
So brown and so young,
The night pullulating around her so fat an
So pregnant as if something which was stung:
While the vagabonds file all out,
And the fish that were one at the fair- the golden
And yawning fish,
Are pregnant: at first beautiful, but they abort
Their row:
And on the swing sets the angels swing, over their
Shoulders, tossing their golden things:
While I rode in my car one day with my Alma,
My muse:
And told her: I, who was not a gunfighter, told her
That she was just as beautiful as the see:
But it did not change- it did not change one thing.