The Liquors That You Sell Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I am empty as the bottle is empty.
As the shell is beautiful,
Look at you; you move as the bicycle
Moves,
Around those neighborhoods,
Caracoling mountains. Even the osprey
Are jealous.
Like them, you didn’t even get to name
Yourself,
But look what you have become;
The sky follows behind you like a net of
Surprised fish,
And all the men their and their airplanes
They follow you like weather,
Like intelligent or needy cumulous,
All impressed by your stamps, how you
Have budded after school
After all the fairytales of television have turned
Off;
And I am waiting for you too,
In a house like a room without any furniture
Or books,
Waiting like your father while you are weeping
In the carport of amphibian incense,
Waiting so you might come in leaving all your
Sunburned boys howling at the far end
Of the cinder blocks,
So that we too might burn like building incense;
So that we can return to each other those
Things we have forgotten, which our classes and
Our other loves stole away:
I can put your meat back inside your auburn bones,
And you can fill me with the liquors that you sell.