The Door That I Am Afraid That I Will Never See Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Doing their own thing in their dream rooms
While their daughters are passed off by car to their
Little sisters:
In the foothills of constructions with the pilot’s laughter
Ushering through the weather like coin smooth
Stones passed over for swans
In the crenulated pews of non denominational weathers;
As my muse does whatever she does on her
Off hours,
Lining the coliseums of anonymous fame: after all of
The high schools have shut down,
And girls that I used to live with have their first born sons
With the steady men who they are more inclined-
Until there is peace, with green bugles form the valley
And all forms of animal life budding there,
While her brown hand and the rest of her is resting behind
That door that I am afraid I will never see.