The Glorious Lights Of Her Fair Grounds Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Turning down the road and dousing the
Lights of cul-de-sacs,
And I have run away and so no longer have need for
Any stanzas:
The bottle is amber, and maybe I have killed a moose,
And am offering its choicest peaces like a red yard sale
Out my front door for Alma;
And maybe she likes me, and maybe she will come to me:
Or there will only forever be obese mosquitoes
And obese call girls, taking my money and drinking my
Blood;
And maybe my bed is a woman that my mother no longer
Attends,
But the fruit trees still whisper like unwelcome strangers
Outside of the glorious lights of her fair grounds
Into which she has so happily taken total possession of my soul.