The Lighthouse Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The lighthouse is painted nicely
In a coat of white, a tie of red:
Standing upon the rocks of many seas
Across the world,
A gentleman on the brink of emptiness:
Forever waiting,
His bride gone away in the palm
Of another hand,
The guests have left in their cavalcade
Of loyal American station wagons,
But he hasn’t done a thing,
For so many years,
After he tossed the rice,
As the model relatives pass away,
And mothers die after their offspring,
Living in the basement at the sea’s brink,
Her name touching his lips,
Like a vine budding on the tomb.
In the night,
There is no one there to heal his face,
As the wind is busy on the waves,
The sirens lure their men upon the cliffs
And he doesn’t do a thing.
In a moment he will walk away,
But for now he is waiting,
Waiting to step away from the sentinel loneliness,
His occupation,
To join in the forgetful procession
And end the sobbing sky.