The Bitter Sweets Poem by Robert Rorabeck

While not trying to leave off the somnabulence
Of your eyes, I misspell, g,
I leave off your garden for awhile:
Aren’t you with child? I am trying to feel good; Spain:
Flickering,
Who is my name? There is no reason to me ashamed,
Repeating your name in the dark:
Sharon, Sharon, Sharon:
Eventually, I get it right, and there is no need for
Lawyers or extracurricular visitors:
You have no idea how difficult that was to spell, Sharon,
When I am not watching football,
When it has been so many years even from our junior
High school, and retractable knives,
And why does it have to be so cruel to recall you from
The baseball stadium of the back nine:
Sharon, aren’t you so absolutely pure from Colorado
Without having to say your name,
And you are so absolutely pure, even damaged with a package
Being sent down: I’ve run out onto the field to check
You out, but what am I undoing,
There is no reason to fear for rain, you are beautifully isolated:
I will never know you, breathing reciprocal in these death
Masks,
Trying to remember the route the butterfly scribbled:
I am so ashamed: you are doing so fine,
Just fine so alone: never reminded of your tannins,
You bitter sweets, with my forehead in my own hands,
The future is up to myself,
And I am so alone.