The Bathrooms Down These Halls Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Didn’t I wound you some, coming down
In the playgrounds of your flesh
With sadly un-profound thievery north of
The everglades and of Miami-
Not even a little, as you came home to your family
And your husband, coalescing so brightly and yet so
Timidly into the estuaries of your primitive world:
There, do not think of me:
And do not love me- my shadow and I both simulacrum
Of a passing care,
Dancing to the words that come to us in the afterbirth of
Crepuscule, drinking rum from as far away as
France- wishing these words to escape our soul,
As arrows for your soul:
And I know your name even though I will not
Say your name- for I have written it many times inside
The bathrooms down these halls.