Paying Cash Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Paying cash, so I don’t have to sleep alone,
Though the tarmac is still hollowed as the rains come,
And to the sides like pews in a wedding,
The orchards hum to the lions of the wind, and this is a country
Yet birthed, that I have seen in the brown prisms of your
Eyes that skip around the daylight
Like little girls in circular yards; and you make me feel so
Warm about you, Alma,
That my loneliness burns away like a good wish, like
A prayer torn from the summit of a mountain,
And I feel as if I can survive even if I don’t yet really have you.