The Armpits Of My Cenotaph Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Now you don’t have to sleep alone like an
Envious spring:
Alma, you can go back to bed with him, your children’
Cooing
Your rabbits missing and all of their love:
Maybe I will sneak beneath the old airplanes and sleep against
Your roof again
And listen to all that love making love:
Maybe I will commit suicide on your roof in the spring,
And make red plants grow from the armpits of my
Cenotaph:
Oh, Alma- I don’t know, but what this is my love for you.