Quiet Singing Poem by Robert Rorabeck

No more playgrounds’ naked play-
I don’t have to skip school anymore,
I just hit the sauce- Not a ribald clear,
But a ribald lost,
Something to sooth the pain all dampened
Out in the long green yard;
Across the street, there is a pale light,
And it is making us aware that a child is
Crying,
But I don’t live here. This yard to a pure white
House isn’t mine. I haven’t even been here,
But I imagine it is where she lives,
Where she draws her waters from the well,
Bending across bosomy in yellow crinoline:
Peach divine, without scars- When I first learned
To walk and sing, I didn’t know I was doing it for
Her, but I was- Going straight south to sunny Florida,
And she was somewhere out there too, just budded,
Getting tossed. How could I know what she could
Be, and that she would come so near,
And given all her free time enjoy her movies;
It is a sad thing to think about that I haven’t even seen her,
But the moon is a pretty thing and it is real because
Cars go by under it to and from the sea, sometimes disappearing
Beneath overpasses, but returning, proving their existence,
And her- And this is her house so pale and fine,
Like something ancient made by the waves resting on the
Endless planes by which we know our lives.
There out front, children are coming to and from school,
And older children and doves- an entire arc of school kids,
And soon she will step out and show some ankle;
She will whistle, her blue eyes lost and following cars;
Perhaps the invisible moon, if it is true,
And I will tip back my glass and once more
So quietly sing.