The Areola Of A Glass Blower Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Now their bodies can afford this,
Getting out of their cars and stumbling towards me,
Just as I try and continue to smell Alma in my bed:
While I bought cartoons for her daughter Heidi and a book,
Both of which she is named after,
And I can hear the whistle of the train, and the remembrances of the rain-
And all of the lost boys are playing cards on the beach with
The dogs,
While Alma is at home in her house with her sisters and her children:
And Alma knows how to make love,
Because she proved that to me while all of the helicopters were watching
In the sky,
And the traffic had stopped to water their horses at the water processing
Plant we went to field trips to sometimes,
But otherwise there was nude women out in perfect display in the
Norton art gallery to which I wrote novels to that
Would never sell,
But I am still doing this, smelling the greenness under tooth and nail,
While Alma’s body swings so perfectly and surreal around the borders
Of my loci like the glistening ripples around the
Areola of a glass blower who is yet practicing.