The Chattel Of Her Missionless Love Poem by Robert Rorabeck

It hurts now to trouble myself
As the day is gone, and most of the lights are out,
Giving my shadow less definitions to be lonely,
But here she is drinking my liquors like a faithful Cadillac
Mortgaged of bruises,
Until the bottle is at a loss and seems to whistle at the
Bus stop empty of ships;
And I cradle my own head as she pantomimes on into
Dusk,
And the playgrounds wait for me, smirking,
Figuring that it is better to have fun without her,
As she skips so straight across the puddles of my reflections,
The mirages my tears have been making,
Giving up my secrets until they are the chattel of her mission less
Loves.