The Dying Of The Same Old Same Poem by Robert Rorabeck

My old night is her new night too,
In a brand new house, with a new husband too:
And her cars are so gaudy out in her yard
Itself having been christened with a new
Manicure of sod;
And even my old rains seem to be her new
Rains too,
If you sit quietly and listen, then she can be new to
You,
Striped out and bedecked like for a female
Peacock’s yard sale- she’ll open her new eyes for you,
And you can swear that they are as instrumental
As the four winds giving direction and purpose to
A weather vane;
But if you asked me, I’d curse that she was nothing
But the same old same;
And certainly not one or two of my muses,
The beauties she awakened from my old houses of
Beat-up bruises-
So in the strange foreplay in the first of the last light
Of this same old crepuscule,
What she happened to kill also resurrected in me,
A beauty that can never die- an immortal pain
That is yet tremulous inside me,
Somehow the fairest light that resonated forth from
The dying of the same old same.