The Gold Mines Of Any Other Man's Bed Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Burning by the fires of our pigeoning word,
The workers who are nothing building up the cenotaphs for
Conquistadors
Or the grizzly bears or something less who is almost
Never here:
But I remember skipping out of school, in my imperfect though
Beautiful skin:
Skipping across the reams of homes that the housewives
Entered in like sheets of music to dry the clothes;
And Alma is right here; or Alma is with him,
As I chase down windmills, as I sing my solemn hymn:
The day becomes just the choice gift of that star that we are all
Chasing;
Alma’s brown skin goes to bed, and she lies down her mother’s
Head in the clouds of a unnamed room:
I have never been to her home, though she has been to my bed,
And maybe in my dreams like a latchkeyed colt who forever has
To roam,
A founding cheating its destiny between the lines of reintroduced
Wolves,
While the airplanes usher in their letters, too high to really sound
Down to her their gifts of love,
And their wings too unconditionally spread to ever comfort her again
Across the goldmines of any other man’s bed.