She Who Is My Muse Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I suppose I have been to the top of some mountain,
Looking down for some girls:
Where they sparkle in the murky glades of cars and
Supermarket,
Going their predestined ways, back and forth between the
Devilish works
Occupying them in their cloyed miniskirts:
I once summitted for in one day, going up and down the
Stony caesuras,
My feet palavering in an immensely empty court:
And I didn’t know Alma then: and I don’t know who
She is now,
But she is in my like, and I am strung out around her like
An evergreen manipulated by the wind
And the biplanes who come infrequently looking for
Missing children;
And this is the barrenness of the desolation of my art:
In the proverbial end, only my dogs will love
Me, only because they cannot see in all of the colors
That I have so wrongly painted her,
She who is my muse.