The Holy Numbers Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Hypothesize that ants cry
Just like the insignificance I weep for you;
It is a silly thing, scarred,
Rupturing from the ground to bring back food
For a queen who doesn’t care:
That I have moved perpetually under the sun since
The day we came together insouciantly in a
Forlorn class,
That I have cultivated all of my songs for you,
While you kissed and manhandled the soldiers
Of your kindled field,
And now spread out we like to say that we are
In better homes,
That the days proceed kindly with outstretched and
Untouchable skies,
But I don’t know why I do this,
When you never were my real monarchy:
I just liked the way you looked dancing like an
Indian along your way to better classes,
And I am all alone, something heliotrope outfitted
In a rainstorm- all of these legs getting me nowhere,
Castaway from the days when you were more inclined
To show off to my wide open senses the angles of
Your great body:
Now its as if you’re suckling the wolf pups off your rolling
Vineyards,
And this is just the junkyard temple I raise underneath
The boot hills of spending fireworks,
Outside the holy numbers of the Catholic church,
Hoping to draw in your attention as I imagined
That I had once done before.