The Most Beautiful Of Causes Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Maybe like you say, you love him, Alma:
You love him, and these are your words.
The silent weeds who spread out like dancers before the cataracts of
The honeymoons of the sun.
And maybe you said that you would be all that I could afford
Just so that you could go home to him,
And maybe that is what you was and what you will become,
But I am thoroughly depleted; I sleep in the hood of the house of my
Bachelorhood, just hoping and praying that you are good enough
To become my banner, and my national anthem,
So that you can whip out all freely over the weeds and the gently hooked
Teeth of all of the pretty housewives that I am otherwise sure
That you would surely become;
And these words are not mine: they are feeling their way outwards over
The sloughs like blind men all too ready to believe,
And maybe we sell the things that you want over the banishing or the
Banishment of the eaves: and maybe I cannot talk about this anymore:
Maybe I will come out strong and find you out on some find and distant
Shore and kiss your mouth and brand your young,
Alma, because maybe I am yet the demigod and you are still the
Most beautiful of causes that I have yet been fighting for.