Running Wild Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Little words in a toy chest of heat stroke,
And I am yawning
And not paying attention to my position in the game:
Not even recommending the hour to humming birds
Or airplanes;
Just as the stewardesses come so high and far flown overhead,
Just like witches with nose bleeds,
And I know that it is time to finally pack up and call it in:
It feels as if my life is going to end,
Knowing that my soul, my Alma, is back at home in another home
I am not welcome in:
A strange new place unto which I can never be reconciles,
That she enters in and gives her life back over to husband and
Child,
While I remain an element out of doors, running wild;
And she recalls me,
And her eyes hang over, or leap across the ditches,
Until she can see the runway where the airplanes are all restive;
But soon they will be playing their games again,
Leaping through the sky and running wild.