The Favorite Colors Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Marching on the proud disinheritance of time,
My darling your lips are purple and full of dust, even though
Your favorite color is green;
And now you are so tired every time you come into the fruit
Market, Alma;
And I want to ask you how much you have been giving of yourself
To the man who sleeps beside you,
Whose initial you have tattooed on the web of your hand;
And it is killing me, and giving me un pure art,
Like a spider bite that is unclean but not fatal;
And I haven’t cut off my ear,
But I find it so hard to orgasm; and the last time I was inside you,
I had no flower to give you, and now you look away to the
Bright spots in the clouds because that is where the constellations
Are shining like your children through the day,
And they seem to be coming closer, and taking the shapes of
Things and creatures that you can understand:
They seem to be telling you everything about your future,
And all that you have ever wished for you and your two young
And bright brown children,
As they cast such wonderfully yellow but unfrightened penumbras
Across the favorite colors over the yards of your land.