The Beautiful Cars And The Absolutely Glorious Boats Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The night is sailing so close and so far away,
Like religious candles flickering, like the caesuras of waves,
And I am almost done,
While the youngest of lovers park their cars and kiss and swap
Tongues straight into the other grottos of their
Romantic
Graves:
And you have two children, Alma, and you don’t want more,
But I want to be the father of your next child, while the sky smiles
And then like hoary roses grows beautiful
And wild,
Like the long-tongued wolf following the curious virgin
Straight home,
Or at least shadowing the lackadaisical path that she chooses to take:
While I sat in your car with you far a half hour today,
And gave you all the colors and moneys of my birthday cake,
And maybe I even thought and prayed to you deep in
Miami Florida even before I met and prayed to you, Alma,
While the all of the desperate stations of ants came up in one
Sunday morning rain shower to kiss and pray to your
Alabaster knuckles,
But otherwise I do not know you:
Otherwise I am not at home, and none of this is real, and the stars
Do not come out at night and sin and drink to themselves
While all of the beautiful cars crash and the absolutely glorious
Boats sink.