The Angels Who Have Promised Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Brilliancies that evaporate as my inebriation is wearing off:
Now I drink soup and pretend to love you forever
In the morning
As I listen to the soundtracks for the new week—
And it doesn't have to echo for very long—soon you will be
Calling me without even having to know or notice
Me—
And in this world they are singing their joy—newly arisen,
Virginal, shopping for the first time at the produce markets
That aren't so far away—the joys that have learned how
To spell for themselves—
And the angels who have promised to be coming home to sleep
With me.